


Can You See Me (Not For What I Am, but For Who I Am)

by orphan_account



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood and Injury, Explicit Language, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Build, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7566775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas wasn't happy when his mother decided to move them all the way across the country. He wasn't happy that he was going to have to live in a different house in a different town, go to a different school, and make new friends. He hated moving and all that implied, but he hated seeing his mother unhappy even more. She had already been through so much, and he couldn't bear to make things more difficult.</p><p>So, they moved to the rustic little town of Maze in upstate Vermont. It was quiet, peaceful; aside from the weather, Thomas thought he actually might like it, but Maze had a history. A dark, bloody history that starts to make itself known to him when he meets Newt, a cold and rather cynical loner who seemingly wants nothing to do with him or anyone else. The town had a story to tell, and so did Newt, and Thomas was determined to unveil them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I am obsessed with werewolf AU's, and I think it has something to do with the fact that I've been binge watching Teen Wolf. I've been wanting to write a werewolf AU for this ship for a while, and I may or may not make this a part of series depending on how this one is received.
> 
> Other characters and/or tags might be added later. I am slowly (but surely) working on this story, and I plan to see it through to the end, but that doesn't mean I have everything quite planned out just yet. (Honestly, I am the worst when it comes to long, drawn out stories.)
> 
> Like always, constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated.
> 
> Also, no, I don't know what my weird fixation with California and Vermont is about.

He was doing it for his mother; that's what he told himself.

Thomas really didn't want to move across the country. He didn't want to leave his friends, transfer to a new school, or settle into a new house, but he didn't want to disappoint his mother, either. She had already been through so much, what with the divorce and her father passing away, that he couldn't bring himself to let her down. The point of the move was to get as far away from the pain as possible; start over, and Thomas wanted to give her that; he wanted to make her happy, even if it meant he would be miserable.

Moving from Beverly Hills, California to Maze, Vermont was a huge adjustment. Not only was the climate freakishly different (Thomas wasn't expecting to need a jacket in the middle of August), but in comparison to Beverly Hills, one could probably drive through Maze and miss it if they weren't paying attention. It was an old, rustic little town with a rich history (according to his mother) and fewer than five-hundred residents. The town was practically surrounded by forest, and it rained just about three times a week. It was a dismal little town, Thomas thought; it was barely big enough for three schools, each building small enough to fit in a football field with room to spare.

As cold and wet as the weather was, and how cramped and frustrating as the school was bound to be, Thomas tried not to complain too much, especially to his mother. They had moved into a pretty nice house, though much smaller than their old one back in California. The kitchen had enough counter space for cooking, the attic and basement were in pretty good condition, and there was enough forest in the backyard for their cat, Jojo, to run around and hunt for squirrels and other small rodents. Though his room was much smaller now (and he had to share a bathroom with his mother), Thomas thought he could actually come to like it.

What he wasn't looking forward to, however, was school.

“Are you sure you don't want me to take you?” his mother asked. The sky was dark and muddy, but it wasn't raining. Despite this, Thomas' mother didn't feel good about her son wandering through a new neighborhood by himself—even though he was allowed to “wander” around Beverly Hills all he wanted and it probably impossible to get lost in Maze—but he insisted he would be fine. He had a pretty vague idea of where everything was and was sure he could find it on his own. Though she continued to express her worries (“What if you get lost, or if somebody kidnaps you?”), she eventually let him go.

Besides, getting there was the least of his worries. Instead, Thomas was more worried about his teachers and classmates. He had had his fair share of horrible teachers and bullies back home, and while he knew that television and books painted a pretty ridiculous, stereotypical image of country folk, he would be lying if he said the impression didn't stick like rust on a saucepan; not that the stereotypes for city folk were much better.

What were his teachers going to be like? Were they nice? Were they mean? Never mind that; were they _competent_? Did any of them actually know what the hell they were talking about, or was he going to have to rely solely on Google to get through his classes?

And what about the other kids? He doubted most of them would welcome him with open arms, unless those shitty books about a city girl moving to a country town and everybody is instantly drawn to her for no reason at all are more accurate than Thomas would ever believe. How many would actually talk to him, and how many would just shove him in a locker? The anxiety of not knowing what to expect was actually upsetting his stomach, to the point where he felt like he needed to find a bathroom, or at the very least a ditch, and just throw up. School was already awful; he didn't need anxiety on top of it.

Thomas begrudgingly made his way through town, feeling as if everybody he passed was staring at him, though he knew they weren't. A place as small as Maze, everybody was bound to know everybody, and an unfamiliar face wouldn't go unnoticed; but he was just a teenager, so he probably didn't matter much to anybody other than other kids. That was fine. Thomas didn't want to socialize more than he had to.

As he expected, the walk to the school took approximately ten minutes, if even that. It was a gloomy looking building, though the lack of sunlight could possibly be a factor. There was a huge oak tree in the courtyard that looked ancient, probably having been there since the beginning, and the flower bushes lining the sidewalks looked less than cheerful, either wilting or turning brown. The building itself was pretty small; Thomas doubted he'd get lost finding his classes, and he had a sneaking suspicion that their cafeteria also served as their gymnasium.

There was a disturbing lack of students hanging around, and Thomas wasn't sure if it was by choice or if they simply hadn't arrived yet. Then again, he was used to the school practically crawling with students back in Beverly Hills, and it was twice the size of the school here. It was also only 7:30 AM, and since class didn't start for another half hour he doubted anybody else would be showing up until the last minute.

For the time being, Thomas decided to ignore them; nobody seemed to pay him any mind, anyway. Arriving early gave him the chance to find his locker and his classes without having to push through a crowd (though he couldn't image a school this small having that many students) and, honestly, he really didn't feel like talking to anybody. He could still feel the anxiety and bitterness of this sudden change burning underneath his skin. He didn't want to be here; he didn't want to have to make new friends, especially since he was never really all that good at it. He just wanted to go _home_.

"Hey, you!"

Startled, Thomas had nearly hit the flag pole at the sudden exclamation. He spun around trying find who had called out to him, if they were even speaking to him at all, until his gaze wandered to a group of boys hanging around two picnic tables sitting in the middle of the courtyard. They were grinning at him, some snickering, and Thomas had never wanted to punch somebody so much in his life. The day hadn't even started and they were already picking on the new kid; typical, he supposed, but that didn't make it any less annoying.

One of the boys, a tall, Asian kid, got up from the table and made his way toward him. Something about him, either the cocky grin on his face or the way he carried himself, told Thomas that he must be the leader of their little clique, and that he must have been the one who shouted. “Don't think I've seen you around here before,” the boy said. “What's your name, greenie?”

The nickname, supposedly, didn't go unnoticed, but Thomas decided not to bring it up. The boy wasn't much taller than him, but he definitely had some muscle. He assumed the boy was a jock, though he wasn't sure what kind of sports teams the school had, and, if he really wanted, could probably take Thomas down without breaking a sweat. The last thing he wanted to do was start a fight, let alone make an enemy on the very first day.

“Thomas,” he finally introduced himself, cursing himself for sounding so nervous. “And, yeah, I'm new here. My mom and I moved in about a week ago.”

"Where you from?"

"California."

“Oh, a city boy, eh?” one of the boys called from the table. Thomas wasn't sure which one it was, and he wasn't sure if it was said with disdain, but the other boys were chuckling as if it were the funniest thing in the world. It made him uneasy. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and go home.

The Asian boy playfully slapped his arm. He seemed just as amused as his friends. Thomas wanted to punch him. “Relax, man,” the boy said. “They're just messing with you. Name's Minho, and those shanks over there are Ben, Winston, Jeff, and Siggy.” The boy, Minho, pointed to each of the other guys sitting at the table, though Thomas paid very little mind to them, not particularly caring one way or the other. It was slowly starting to dawn on him that the boys meant no harm, and he still felt stiff, his muscles tense. Minho seemed to sense his discomfort, so when he looked back at him the smug grin on his lips softened into a reassuring smile.

Somehow, Thomas ended up liking Minho.

* * *

“This place is a real dump, huh?” Minho asked with a chuckle. He had insisted on showing Thomas around the school, despite Thomas telling him that he could find his own way around, and tried talking the place up to be better than it actually was, if just to make him feel better. The cafeteria food sucked, their chairs and desks were falling apart, and the text books were so old that most students would actually prefer using the Bing or Yahoo! search engines for more reliable information.

“It's not so bad once you get used to it, though. I mean, I've never really been outside of Maze, so I don't know what it's like compared to your big, fancy schools in Beverly Hills.”

The two of them had also talked a little bit during the tour. Well, technically Minho would ask questions and Thomas would supply vague or lame responses, but it was enough. Thomas did, however, explain that they had moved all the way out to practically the middle of nowhere because his parents had had an ugly divorce, and that's what really made Minho stick with him. The other boy's parents had also had a nasty divorce when he was seven, so he definitely knew how hard it could be. Minho probably just felt sorry for him, having to go through the same things he did, and Thomas had to admit that it was nice to have _somebody_ to talk to; somebody who would understand.

“It's definitely an adjustment,” Thomas said with a shrug. They passed the library which also served as their computer lab. He doubted there to be a good selection of books and the computers still probably ran on Internet Explorer. “But I think I'll manage.”

“There ya go, greenie.” Minho patted him on the back a little too hard, and the nickname “greenie” was already starting to grate on his nerves, but Thomas didn't say anything. He wasn't afraid of offending the other boy anymore, but he had the feeling that Minho wouldn't care and would continue to do as he pleased. “That's a winning attitude. Keep it up and you might survive the Rat Man.”

“Rat Man?” Thomas repeated, unable to keep the interested smile off his face.

“That's what we 'delinquents' call him,” Minho explained. “Janson's the chemistry teacher here, and he's a total shithead. Trust me, if the food here doesn't make you sick to your stomach, he will.”

Remembering that he had chemistry third period, Thomas was already dreading the day. Minho didn't go into detail about this supposedly awful teacher, but, then again, he didn't really want him to.

The two of them passed a corner, Minho saying something about showing him their pathetic excuse or a track field, and Thomas nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of another student walking passed him, nearly running into them in the process. “Oh, sorry...”

It was a boy; a handsome boy, admittedly, clad in a black hoodie and an icy glare that could probably freeze Thomas' soul should he look directly into his eyes for too long. The boy kept walking, completely ignoring them, and Thomas couldn't decide if he was disappointed for not getting a better look at him or annoyed by the mysterious boy's rude behavior. “Who was that?” he asked, not entirely sure why he wanted to know.

The look on Minho's face made it seem like he had no idea who Thomas was talking about, or at the very least didn't care. “Ah, forget him,” he said. He was rubbing the back of his neck anxiously, as if the boy were somebody he really didn't feel comfortable talking about. “He gives everybody the cold shoulder. Don't worry about it.”

“Okay, but _who is he_?” For some reason, Thomas couldn't let it drop. He wanted to know how somebody could act that way to a person they've never met before. Okay, yes, he's bumped into some major assholes before, but this was the first time somebody had shot him a glare that made him feel like he'd murdered them in another life or something.

Minho let out a heavy sigh, not bothering to hide his displeasure. “His name's Newt. The guy moved out here all the way from freaking London of all places a couple of years ago. He's harmless, I guess. Doesn't talk much, though. Like I said, he gives everybody the cold shoulder. I wouldn't waste my time on him if I were you.”

“Doesn't he have any friends?” Thomas pressed on. It was like he had been set to autopilot.

“No,” Minho shrugged. “Not that I know of, anyway. He's kind of a loner. I mean, I've seen him talk sometimes to Aris, a sophomore, but he pretty much keeps to himself. It's a small school, so everyone knows him, but I never see him make an effort and nobody really wants to deal with him.”

It was impossible to explain, and if he told Minho he'd probably call him crazy, but Thomas suddenly felt pity for the boy; for Newt. He had also moved from a big city, and for whatever reason he had failed to find somebody, even just one person, he could call a friend. Thomas wanted to ask more about him, but if Minho knew anything more he obviously wasn't interested in sharing. For now, Thomas decided to drop it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of school hadn't been as bad as Thomas expected it to be, though he wished his encounter with Newt had gone a little better. He's still adjusting, still trying to shake the bleak situation that was eating away at him like the plague. For now, he just wants to rest, but _something_ is lurking in the woods behind his house.

The first half of the day went by in a blur to Thomas. Since the school year had just started, their teachers had passed out syllabuses, which basically contained the same rules as literally every other school, and textbooks that, after one glance at the condition, Thomas decided he wouldn't be using. As it turned out, Minho was in his homeroom and calculus class, so the two of them quietly chatted amongst themselves the whole time.

Despite his best efforts, Minho couldn't keep the conversation from turning about Newt. Thomas didn't know why he cared so much; either he felt sorry for him or he wanted to understand how somebody could be so needlessly cold. The inexplicable itch to ask questions only increased by the time lunchtime rolled around. Thomas sat with Minho, the latter insisting on introducing him to some of the other students, but a familiar mop of disheveled blond hair passing by didn't go unnoticed. Like before, Newt hadn't spared him a second glance or spoken a single word to him, but it only made Thomas want to talk to him more, as if there was some sort of supernatural force drawing him to him.

“Hope you've got a barf bag,” Brenda, a girl Minho had introduced him to, joked. Perhaps it wasn't a joke, though, because the “chicken pot pie” they had been served for lunch looked more like mystery meat and gray ooze. “The food here is disgusting. I took some home and tried feeding it to my dog once, and even he stuck his nose up at it.”

“I can't imagine why,” Thomas mumbled, poking at his “food” with his fork. If he didn't know any better, he would have sworn it moved.

Not really wanting to spend the next twenty-five minutes talking about how gross the food was, Thomas dared to turn his head, letting his eyes wander until he found Newt. The blond sat alone in the very back of the cafeteria, a gloomy expression on his face, poking his food with as much disinterest as the rest of the kids. The cafeteria wasn't very big, but even from fifteen or twenty feet away Thomas could see a faint hint of loneliness in his eyes, and it made him wonder if he really was alone by choice or if the other kids wanted nothing to do with him.

“...cute, don't you, greenie?”

“Thomas?”

Thomas' head had nearly snapped off with how quickly he turned around. He had been so lost in his own thoughts, he didn't even realize they had been trying to get his attention. The amused smirk from before had returned to Minho's face, and if Brenda hadn't been sharing the same grin Thomas probably wouldn't have thought anything of it. “Sorry,” he apologized lamely. “I wasn't listening.”

“Yeah, we know,” Minho laughed. “You've been staring at the prince of gloom and doom over there since we sat down.”

“Will you stop calling him that?” Brenda asked, slapping the Asian boy's shoulder. It was hard to tell if she was joking or not. “He gets enough shit from everybody else without you calling him names.”

While the two of them argued, Thomas tried to steal another glance at the boy in the back of the room, only to find that he was gone. He looked around the cafeteria, but Newt was nowhere to be seen. _Where did he go?_ He was honestly half tempted to get up and look for him (he couldn't have gotten too far in such a short amount of time), but the logical part of his brain immediately talked him out of it. Newt was a stranger to him, and he was a stranger to Newt. It would be crazy to practically hunt him down and start a conversation with him out of the blue. Who did something like that? A stalker, maybe.

“I'm just saying,” Minho interrupted Thomas' thoughts once more, “the dude's kind of a weirdo. I mean, who in the right mind moves away from fucking _London_ all the way out here, in a house smack dab in the middle of the goddamn woods, and then doesn't talk to anybody for three years? My vote is serial killer.”

“Minho!”

Brenda slapped the back of Minho's head, and yet Thomas still flinched as if it had been him. It was hard to say whether or not Minho was joking, though it left a bitter taste in his mouth, regardless. If Minho thought (or at least joked) something so ridiculously extreme, what did other people think? Thomas hadn't shared one word with the blond, but even he couldn't see himself coming to such a ludicrous conclusion.

The two of them seemed lost in their own conversation, completely forgetting about Thomas, so he took it upon himself to go ahead and dump his food—if he could even consider the slop that had been given to him food—and, despite his best judgment, look for Newt. He knew it was crazy, but he really did want to talk to him; the curiosity was eating away at him. It was even stranger because Thomas didn't necessarily consider himself a social person. He could talk to people, sure, but he'd be lying if he said the friends he made back in California were only because he coincidentally sat at a table full of other nerds who knew way too many lines from _Star Wars_ and _The Avengers_ by heart.

Slipping away from Minho and Brenda actually proved quite easy, neither of them paying enough attention to notice. Thomas felt a little guilty for ditching them, especially since they'd been so nice to him, but he simply couldn't help himself. His legs started moving before he could give it too much thought, and before he knew it he was venturing through the hallways, searching for the familiar halo of blond hair and black hoodie. It couldn't be too hard to find him, Thomas thought. He didn't know what class Newt had been in before lunch, but his instincts told him to check the library first.

The library was near the very back of the building, one of the last rooms before exiting out onto the track field. When he stepped inside for the first time, Thomas quickly realized how cramped it was with the bookshelves in the back of the room, computers on one side and empty tables, presumably for studying and reading, on the other. It was only a little bit bigger than the average classroom, and if Thomas felt claustrophobic with only a few other kids in the room he really didn't want to be in here with the entire class.

There was one perk of such a small room, however, and that was that it was so easy to spot Newt sitting on the floor in the back of the room, his back against the wall and a book in his lap. _Well, that was easy._ The blond didn't seem to have noticed him yet, and for the first time since he left the cafeteria that tiny flicker of doubt that he had pushed to the back of his mind had ignited into a furious flame. Thomas' legs suddenly felt like they were glued to the floor. _What the hell am I doing?_

It seemed so silly. Thomas was so curious about this guy, a guy who had been pretty rude to him, that he couldn't stop himself from ditching his new friends and following him like some kind of stalker, and now that he was practically ten feet away he couldn't bring himself to move another inch. He could almost laugh at himself, it was so insane. _This was stupid_ , he thought to himself. _I should head back. Guess I could just tell Minho that I had to go to the bathroom or something._

However, when Thomas looked up, just before he could turn on his heel and leave, his eyes met Newt's. No, they didn't just meet; their gazes were practically locked on each others. There was no doubt about it. Newt knew he was staring at him, and if the glare from before didn't pierce Thomas' soul, this new look of pure, unadulterated anger could probably kill him. It was a look that screamed “get lost”, and if Thomas didn't have the persistence of a billy goat he might have ran out of the room. Unfortunately, he did, so in spite of every fiber of his being telling him not to, Thomas approached him.

As hard as he tried, Newt couldn't keep his focus on his book; his eyes kept darting anxiously back and fourth between the pages and Thomas. When Thomas finally stopped a mere foot away from him, it was like he was forcing himself not to make eye contact. Thomas found it odd, but chose not to make a comment about it. “Uh, hi,” he said, wanting to smack himself for how awkward he sounded. “I'm Thomas. We kinda ran into each other this morning, and I didn't get your name.”

“You already know my name,” Newt stated bluntly, refusing to look away from his book.

Minho had told him that Newt moved from London, but Thomas still wasn't expecting such a thick (and heavenly) English accent to roll off the blond's tongue so casually. With him being in the states for so long, he expected his accent to have rubbed off by now, not that Thomas was complaining. Newt had a nice voice. (Is that a weird thing to think?) Too bad it was wasted on such a sour attitude. Thomas really didn't know what to say after that; the feeling of utter stupidity was once again starting to outweigh his stubbornness.

“Anyway,” Thomas continued, “I'm new around here, so I don't really know anyone yet. Minho's been kind of showing me around but—”

“You don't have to make up excuses,” Newt interrupted bitterly. “I know why you followed me, and I'm only giving you one chance'ta piss off and leave me be.”

To say that Thomas was taken aback by the response would be the understatement of the century. So many questions were racing through his mind all at once, from how Newt supposedly knew why he wanted to talk to him, to why he felt the need to be so virulent. It had actually stunned him into a dumb silence for almost a solid minute. “Excuse me?”

Suddenly, Newt's face is only inches away from his. His deep brown eyes were all but piercing his soul, and a tiny part of Thomas that he would never admit was actually wondering if he was going to beat the crap out of him. “Leave me alone,” the blond repeated, his tone low and demanding. Thomas didn't even have a chance to retort before Newt brushed passed him without another word, leaving him completely dumbfounded.

* * *

That evening, Thomas decided to focus on unpacking the rest of his things. The first day of school had gone relatively well, he supposed; that's what he told his mother, at least. His classes weren't the worst (with the exception of chemistry with Janson), and he guessed he could say he had made friends with Minho and Brenda, but neither encounter with Newt had gone all that well and he had no idea why the blond seemed to hate him so much. Was this really how he treated everyone? If so, Thomas could see why he didn't have any friends.

Still, he couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. Maybe, just maybe, if he had one friend he wouldn't be such a jackass.

It was around nine o'clock when he finished putting all of his clothes away. He probably should have done this when they moved in, but he simply couldn't bring himself to do it. A week had passed, but he was still bitter about the move; bitter about everything. There was still some lingering resentment toward his father, a man he admired and thought he could trust, and a sour taste in his mouth put there by his mother who moved him to the other side of the country without discussing it with him. He wasn't given a choice, and now it just felt as if he was being dragged along like a lifeless puppet.

Thomas collapsed onto his bed, muscles aching from working all day long. He didn't want to think about his dad; he didn't want to think about the new life that was thrust upon him, and he definitely didn't want to think about Newt. Yet somehow the grumpy boy kept invading his thoughts, no matter how hard Thomas tried to shake him. There was just something about Newt, despite his nasty attitude, that drew Thomas to him. Admittedly, he was pretty cute, what with his alluring brown eyes (though all they ever did was glare at him) and golden locks which Thomas wondered if were as soft they looked.

Too bad his looks were lost on his lack of manners.

He could hear the front door opening from down the hall, which meant his mother had come home from work. Normally, Thomas would go to welcome her, but today had been anything but normal, and he really didn't want to leave the comfort of his bed. He was too tired, both physically and emotionally. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and try to get some sleep. Tomorrow was a new day, and he was going to have to figure out how to get through it without meeting Newt's deadly gaze. _I should just forget about him_ , he told himself.

Thomas tossed and turned in his bed. A half hour had passed until his eyes started to feel heavy. He might have actually been able to fall asleep if it weren't for the sudden bloodcurdling howl echoing from outside. Thomas jumped up in his bed, his heart practically bursting through his chest. The howling sounded close—too close—though he honestly couldn't recall ever hearing a dog's (wolf's?) howl the past few nights. There were two more howls, one Thomas was positive was the first and another that sounded a bit further away.

It was a surreal sound; somehow relaxing and horrifying at the same time. There were no wolves in California, and while Thomas was used to his neighbor's dog howling at night this sounded different, though only slightly. Perhaps they were only dogs, having gotten out of their homes somehow and now trying to find their way back. Yeah, that was probably it. Maze may have been a small area, but there couldn't possibly be wolves, could there?

The eerie howling continued, though they started to sound more like desperate cries with every passing second. Thomas wanted to cover his ears, wanted to bury himself under the covers and try to ignore them but found that he couldn't. Instead, he was hesitantly making his way over to his bedroom window. He didn't know why; he probably wouldn't be able to see anything, but something told him to _move_. It was almost as if he were being hypnotized, for as he pulled back the curtains he examined the backyard and tried to peer into the forest as best he could. As to be expected, there was nothing. For a moment, everything had fallen bone chillingly silent; the howling had stopped.

And then there was a loud _bang_. A gun had been fired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly surprised at how well this has been received so far; thank you all so much! I am going to try to update as often as I can, but between work and sometimes not having the motivation to write I can't make any guarantees. Chapter three is in the works, and since I have Sunday off I'd like to update again sometime this weekend.
> 
> Also, I am bad at chapter titles and summaries.
> 
> Thanks again!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if the appearance of wolves wasn't strange enough, a student at Maze High School goes missing. The peaceful town of Maze isn't looking so peaceful anymore, and Thomas is itching for an explanation.

Thomas hadn't gotten any sleep that night. The howling had stopped, but the sound of gunfire still rang in his ears, invading his dreams. He didn't know what was more frightening; the fact that there were (possibly) wolves that could come and go through his backyard as they pleased, or that there were hunters that could come and go through his backyard as they pleased. Thomas knew he had to talk about it with his mother (surely she had heard the commotion), though he wasn't sure what she could do about it. Did Maze even have an animal control unit?

“Good morning, honey,” his mother greets him with a kiss to his cheek as he meandered into the kitchen. The smell of bacon and eggs overwhelmed his sense, and for a moment Thomas had completely forgotten about the noises from last night. He took the plate his mother had prepared for him and sat down at the small table in the dining room. If his mother had been disturbed by the howling, she didn't seem to show it. Perhaps she thought he hadn't heard, that he had slept soundly through it all, so a tiny part of him felt bad ruining the mood.

“Hey, mom,” he mumbled, moving his scrambled eggs around with his fork, “there aren't any wolves around here, are there?”

“Wolves?” His mother looked baffled for a moment, but then her eyes softened. She knew exactly what he was talking about. “There haven't been wolves in Vermont for a long, long time,” she explained, taking her own pace at the table. “If you're worried about last night, don't be. It's almost hunting season, and some people are probably just getting a head start. The authorities will take care of it.”

What she was saying made sense. Though Thomas knew next to nothing about hunting, he at least knew that there were dozens of different breeds of hunting dogs. He also knew that people had a tendency to _ignore_ the specific dates for the hunting seasons, and would go out a few days before the season started and after it ended. Still, he couldn't shake the ominous feeling that that wasn't the case last night. He had never heard a dog howl like that, so desperate and afraid, and he couldn't believe the sound of gunfire would silence them; if anything, that should have riled them up more.

Something was starting to feel wrong here.

The remainder of the morning was spent in silence. It was obvious his mother didn't want to talk about the incident anymore than they already had, and that was fine with him; Thomas didn't want to think about it anymore, either.

Thomas kissed his mother goodbye before grabbing his backpack and rushing out the door. It had been an odd couple of days—between the move, meeting Newt, and the howling and gunfire from the previous night—and he just wanted a shred of normalcy. Although, the naturally inquisitive part of him wondered if anybody else had heard the commotion. Had his neighbors heard? Surely they must have, and he probably would have asked them if his last encounter with them didn't consist of him accidentally breaking their fine China.

“Hey, Thomas!”

So lost in thought, Thomas hadn't even realized that a truck had driven up behind him, Brenda in the passenger seat and Minho behind the wheel. “You wanna ride?” Brenda asked, a friendly smile on her lips. “I know the school's not far from here, but it still sucks to walk.”

Honestly, Thomas didn't mind the walk. He liked the exercise and the time to himself, and the fresh air created by the surrounding forest and morning rain was quite pleasant. Nonetheless, he decided he wouldn't deny the generous offer; besides, perhaps talking to Minho and Brenda would take his mind off of things. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Thomas climbed in through the passenger side, Brenda sliding into the middle. She was so small, she could easily fit in between him and Minho without being squashed. Once he slammed the door shut, Minho stepped on the gas and took off down the road. It felt a little strange being in a vehicle with people he had only known for a day, though it had nothing to do with Minho or Brenda themselves. It was a lot like when you were a little kid, and you're invited over to your friend's house for dinner for the very first time, and their mother drives you home afterward; you're comfortable around them, but the experience is all so new.

“You hear all that racket last night, greenie?” Minho asked. There was a devious grin on his face. Thomas knew exactly what he was talking about. _So much for forgetting about it_.

“What was all of that howling?” Thomas countered. “It sounded like wolves.”

“Wolves?” Brenda scoffed. “There are no wolves in Maze.”

Somehow, hearing the statement from a local didn't sound reassuring. “It couldn't have been dogs, could it?” Thomas asked. “I mean, does that happen often?”

“Not really,” Minho admitted with a shrug. Though he had been the one to bring it up, he sounded less than interested. “I hear it every now and again, but it's not like it happens every night.”

Thomas couldn't understand how the two could be so calm about the situation. Then again, if it was a common occurrence then they were probably accustomed to it by now. The group had been quick to change to the subject, focusing instead on the upcoming pretest that Janson had told them about yesterday; Brenda apparently was an expert on chemistry (Thomas made a mental note to come to her if he ever needed help), and Minho complained about how stupid the idea of a pretest was, not that Thomas could blame him. The remaining time of the drive consisted of small talk—bad movies and what most kids did to have some fun in Maze—and Thomas couldn't have been more thankful for it.

* * *

The school was eerily silent. Students whispered amongst their friends, and there wasn't a teacher in sight. There was an eerie feeling in the air; it gave Thomas chills, but for now he would ignore it. This was only his second day in Maze High School, and perhaps this was normal, though he had his doubts. It was like they were at a funeral, and when he reached his locker he couldn't help but feel like he had to be quiet.

“Do you think he's okay?” Thomas overheard a girl say. There was a small group of students, two girls and a boy, a few feet away from him. They didn't look familiar, and they didn't look like they could be any older than fifteen; he assumed they were sophomores. Whatever it was they were talking about, it was none of his business, but Thomas couldn't help himself from eavesdropping.

“They just said he was missing, right?” the nameless boy asked. “Couldn't he have just run away from home?”

“Of course not!” the second girl retorted. “Aris would never do something like that! Not without telling me...”

 _Wait. Did she say Aris?_ Thomas vaguely remembered Minho mentioning somebody named Aris, but he couldn't recall ever meeting the guy himself; the group of kids must have been friends of his. Aris' supposed disappearance must be the cause for the strange silence, and it made him wonder about the crime rate within the town. If Aris hadn't run away, was he kidnapped? Why and by whom? When was the last time something like this had happened? The little town of Maze was getting stranger day by day; more ominous.

Not wanting to scare himself, Thomas quickly grabbed his calculus book and closed his locker. He may not have known Aris personally, but there was still an emptiness in the pit of his stomach. The best he could do was not to think about it, to focus on his schoolwork and surviving the day without wanting to slam his head in a locker. When he turned a corner, however, the hope of making it through the day quickly starting to fleet away. Newt stood ten feet away, chatting with two other girls Thomas just barely recognized from his English and history classes. For whatever reason, he felt the need to duck behind the corner, despite knowing how ridiculous he must have looked.

“You didn't see who it was?” the shorter girl, Sonya he believed her name was, asked. It wasn't Thomas' intention to eavesdrop (again), but he couldn't help but wonder why Newt—grumpy, anti-social Newt—was talking to these girls. “You didn't sense them?”

“I definitely sensed someone,” the dark-skinned girl, Harriet, countered with a sad sigh. “I know it was a man, but I couldn't see anybody no matter how hard I tried.”

“What about Aris?” Newt asked.

Harriet seemed tense and hesitant to respond. When Thomas peered out, he could see that Harriet's fists were tightly clenched, like she was close to punching a hole in the wall. “By the time I found him—”

“No,” Sonya interrupted, her voice slightly broken. “Don't say it. I don't want to hear it.” Her eyes were glistening, on the verge of tears, and Thomas desperately wanted to confront them. Just what the hell were they talking about? That kid Aris, obviously, but what was this about 'sensing' someone? Was Harriet there to witness Aris' disappearance? So many questions were swimming around Thomas' head too quickly. His palms suddenly felt sweaty and his heart was racing; the desire to know was too overwhelming.

Then, Newt's eyes were locked with his, and Thomas froze. _Shit_.

“I, uh, I didn't hear anything,” Thomas quickly defended himself, coming out of his pathetic hiding place. “I swear.”

“Liar,” Newt immediately accused. He took angry strides toward him, and as much as Thomas wanted to turn on his heel and run he found that he was glued in place. It was as if Newt's deadly gaze locked him into place, stripping him of control over his body. Once again, he didn't know whether or not the blond would actually punch his teeth in. “Why don't you mind your own business?” Newt spat. “This doesn't concern you, so piss off.”

“Newt!” Harriet snapped. She didn't look angry or frustrated; just tired, perhaps even upset, but far from angry. “Just… Stop it, okay? Picking fights isn't going to help.”

Newt's eyes were attached to Thomas' for another moment or two until his features finally started to relax, his glare softening. He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his disheveled locks. He honestly looked just as tired as Harriet; it was hard to be angry with him, though Thomas would be lying if he wasn't experiencing some mild aggravation. He figured that they all must have been friends with Aris, even Newt, and that they were all taking his disappearance pretty hard, but what right did Newt have to snap at him?

The school bell blared in their ears, warning the students to get to their homerooms if they hadn't already. Newt walked passed Thomas without another word, Harriet and Sonya following in his footsteps with Harriet mumbling a small apology. Thomas stood there for a moment, completely dumbfounded. He didn't know what to make of the situation; there was just so much that didn't add up. The way the group had been talking made it seem like they knew exactly what had happened to Aris, and that he hadn't just vanished. It sounded like Harriet had been with him at the time; were Newt and Sonya there, too? Had they spoken to the police at all?

What the hell were they hiding?

* * *

Throughout the day, many teachers and students had been very fidgety and anxious. Everyone was either whispering about Aris' disappearance or how they had heard wolves howling the night prior. (Thomas was glad to know he wasn't the only one with the suspicion of wolves.) Janson was especially acting strange, not particularly caring for the disturbed state the school had been in. Thomas was starting to wonder if the guy even had a soul.

Minho had offered to drive him home, as well, but Thomas wanted the time to think. It almost seemed to him as if the town itself had been hiding something from him, an outsider, and that perhaps Minho and Brenda knew more than they were willing to tell him. After all, Minho had claimed that he had heard howling several times in the past, but the rest of the student body had acted as if last night had been the first time they had ever heard a wolf howl. Brenda had also stated that there were no wolves in in Maze, making Thomas even more confused. The claims were inconsistent, and perhaps that's why, when he reached his house, he decided to hop the back fence and wander into the woods.

Honestly, Thomas hadn't done much exploring of his backyard since they moved in. Having lived in a big city all of his life, he was genuinely curious and fascinated that there was a woodland behind his house, though his mother expressed her worries about him getting lost. Today he wouldn't have to worry about that, for his mother would be working late again. He could venture into the woods as far as he liked, choosing not to think about what dangers might lie in wait for him.

Everything seemed silent, making the crunching of the leaves beneath Thomas' feet unbearably loud. The birds would chirp every so often, and Thomas could vaguely hear the scratching sounds of small rodents climbing the trees surrounding them. He hadn't come out here in the hopes of finding an actual wolf (or any other predators), but he wasn't entirely what else he would be looking for. Admittedly, he should have put more thought into it before he wandered into unfamiliar territory, but when he thought back to what Newt, Harriet, and Sonya were talking about it only made him want to go in further. He couldn't think of a reason as to why they and Aris would be out here at night, but perhaps with a bit of exploring he could learn something.

Broken branches and stumps littered the forest. There was an old, beaten up truck that had rusted over in time, and Thomas really didn't want to know how it had gotten there or for how long it had been left to rot. It was creepy, and it left an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't sure how much time he had spent outside; when he turned around he couldn't see his house anymore, so he assumed he had gone pretty far.

Thomas hadn't come across any wild animals aside from squirrels, chipmunks, and deer; no sign of any wolves or even dogs. _This was a stupid idea_ , he thought to himself, _and now I'm totally lost_. The sun was beginning to set, so he figured now would be a good time to head back; the last thing he wanted was for his mother to come home and find that he wasn't there. He didn't want to worry her, especially not after their conversation this morning.

“What are you doing?”

Thomas let out an embarrassing yelp, quickly spinning around and nearly falling flat on his ass in the process. The question was so sudden, he had no idea somebody was standing behind him, and he was taken aback to see that it was—who else—Newt. “Oh, I, uh,” he began lamely. Thomas tried his best to avoid any eye contact with Newt. The last thing he wanted to do was to get in a fight with him in the middle of the woods—where nobody else is around to witness his murder. “I was just, uh… You know, I think the better question is, what are _you_ doing?”

“I live out here,” Newt stated bluntly.

 _Live where, in a coyote den?_ Thinking better on it, Thomas decided to keep that little thought to himself. Besides, houses in the middle of the woods was really nothing new, and Minho did say that Newt's family lived out in the woodlands. “Now, what are you doing?” Newt repeated. With the blond's arms crossed and the suspicious look on his face, Thomas felt like he was under interrogation.

“I was, um, looking for my cat,” Thomas lied. “Yeah, Jojo likes to hunt squirrels and birds out here, but my mom wants me to give him a bath, so here I am.” It wasn't too far a stretch, since that cat really did escape into the woods to torture the local wildlife. Unfortunately, Newt didn't look the least bit convinced, quirking his brow as if challenging him to keep up his lies. How the hell did he always know he was lying? He wasn't that bad of a liar, was he?

“Whatever,” Newt finally gave in with a sigh. “I'm too tired to care. Do whatever you want.”

Newt walked passed Thomas without another word, which he had come to expect by now. While he was quick to learn that it was best to let the blond go after an unpleasant encounter (which is any encounter), something told him to follow him; something willed his legs to start moving, ignoring the little voice in the back of his mind telling him it was a bad idea. But he had walked a mile or two out in the middle of the woods and had nothing to show for it; trying to get an asshole like Newt to talk was better than nothing.

Maybe he could get some answers out of him.

“Hey, what's your deal?” Thomas asked. They made their way up a hill, Thomas trying his best not to trip over the broken tree branches and wet patches of leaves. Newt seemed to have no difficulty, probably having walked this path a hundred times over, making it easy. “I mean, why do you hate me so much?”

“I don't hate you,” Newt countered.

“Could've fooled me,” Thomas mumbled. “Then why do you treat me like I killed your dog or something?”

“I treat everyone like that. What makes you so special?”

Thomas rolled his eyes. _Well, at least he's honest_. “You seemed pretty friendly with those girls earlier,” he pointed out. “Are they your friends, or are girls just the exception to your jackass routine?”

Newt suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned to face Thomas. He looked more annoyed than angry, and Thomas knew that he had touched a nerve. This time, though, he wasn't going to back down, no matter what the blond said. “You know, _Tommy_ , you ask a lot of questions that I really don't think you want the answers to.”

“Don't call me that,” Thomas retorted.

“What, you don't like 'Tommy'?”

“No, I don't. Nobody calls me that.”

“Good, then I'll call you 'Tommy'.”

“What the hell is your problem?” Thomas snapped as Newt turned to walk away again. “How can you be like this? It's almost like you're _trying_ to make people hate you.”

Newt didn't say anything else; just kept walking, adding to Thomas' anger. Despite his better judgment, and that same little voice practically screaming at him to just go home, he once again followed the blond's footsteps. “Look, if this is about Aris, I get it. I mean, I know he was kind of your friend, but taking it out on others isn't going to bring him back. If you're feeling down or lonely, you can talk to—”

“Shut up!” Newt shouted. Once again he had stopped, turning to face Thomas with a new found fury in his eyes. “Shut up! Just shut up! Don't act like you know how this makes me feel, 'cause you don't. You _don't_. So I suggest you turn around, go home, and mind your own damn business, because unlike some people you don't have to watch your back when you so much as step foot outside.”

There's a heavy silence between them now. Thomas is stunned as Newt's expression softens after his outburst, his eyes glistening with an emotion he would have never expected to see from the blond—fear. As much as he wanted to ask what he was so afraid of, why he didn't seem to feel safe anywhere, Thomas couldn't find the words to do so.

He couldn't find it in him to stop Newt from walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait on this one; work has been stressful and I've just been too tired to do much of anything. So, to compensate, I tried to make this one a bit longer than previous two chapters. I'd honestly _like_ for my chapters to be longer than they have been, it's just finding the time and the inspiration. Anyway, thanks again for all of your support, and I'll try to update again soon.
> 
> Also, I'm going to start leaving the chapters nameless until I can come up with decent names for them.
> 
> Constructive criticism is always welcome, as well!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is finally getting somewhere with Newt, just barely brushing the surface of what is weighing him down, making him bitter and cold. It isn't much, but at least it's something.

Days had passed since their encounter in the woods; Thomas eventually lost count. Newt hadn't shown up to school and nobody either knew why or didn't seem to care. Some kids, when Thomas asked, assumed that he had fallen ill, which was definitely plausible. Others, however, made jokes about his well-being, most of which Thomas was too appalled to repeat. No matter the reason, after their argument he couldn't help but be a little bit worried about him. The tiny little flame of intrigue from the very first time he met him had ignited into something more, and Thomas just wanted to talk to him again.

Honestly, there was a point during the week where Thomas felt so desperate that he was actually willing to go back into the woods, though it had taken him two hours to get back the first time. He knew there was very little chance that he would run into Newt again, but after his family broke up he was pretty much willing to chance anything.

It was Sunday, and Thomas' mother had a tradition where every Sunday night she would make a delicious meal of chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans, just like her mother had before her. She would also make biscuits, though since they had run out of flour (which Thomas didn't understand since neither of them really used flour that much) she had sent him out to the grocery store to do a bit of shopping.

As opposed to the city, there was only one small market on the other side of town. The very first time he had stepped foot in the building Thomas' jaw had practically dropped to the floor in awe of the size. It was nothing like Target or K-Mart where there would be different departments, so many aisles you could get lost it; there was nothing but fruits and vegetables, canned and boxed goods lining every shelf. It was a quaint little store, and though it had taken some getting used to he had quickly grown to like it.

Thomas wandered the aisles, trying to find everything his mother had asked him to pick up. Flour, baking soda, garlic powder; most of it was pretty easy to find, and he didn't imagine himself spending more than ten minutes in the store. His mother was cooking dinner; he _couldn't_ spend more than ten minutes in the store.

When he turned a corner, Thomas was surprised to catch a glimpse of a familiar black hoodie, and only when he took a few steps closer did he realize it was Newt. The blond was standing at the other end of the aisle, though before Thomas could call out to him he noticed another small figure standing beside him; a little girl with her long dark weaved into a loose braid. She seemed to be pestering him, pulling on his arm and pointing at what looked like fruit snacks on the top shelf. There was no way she could have been any older than six.

“Don't you have enough snacks?” Newt asked tiredly. “Mum asked us to get bread, not junk.”

“Aw, but it's My Little Pony. Please?” the little girl begged, now tugging on Newt's arm with both hands.

_She must be his sister_ , Thomas thought. For some reason he had painted the image in his head of Newt being an only child, so seeing him out in public with a little girl was quite surreal. Actually, given the blond's rather pissy nature, watching him get harassed for fruit snacks by a child was kind of hilarious. Thomas couldn't stop himself for chuckling. “Yeah, Newt. Don't deny her My Litty Pony.”

Newt's head spun around so fast, Thomas thought it might have snapped off. Even the girl had fallen silent, obviously not having expected somebody to recognize her (supposed) brother in public. Though Thomas had been expecting his trademark glare, the blond only sighed. He looked utterly exhausted, his face pale and eyes sunken in. Certainly he wasn't about to yell at him or tell him to fuck off, and a small part of him wanted to ask what the matter was, why he looked so miserable.

“What do you want?” Newt asked, a suspicious lack of heat in his tone. Thomas didn't know what was worse, Newt's yelling or his moping.

“Oh, I was just doing some shopping for my mom,” Thomas admitted, holding up the half-full basket of groceries to emphasize as if to prove himself. “I haven't seen you at school in a while. I was actually wondering if you were doing okay.” It wasn't a lie, really. Newt had been on his mind more than he'd care to admit, the desire to help him growing as the days went by. Now, clearly Newt wasn't willing to accept that help, and despite their fighting the least he could do is let him know he's there if he ever chooses to.

“Is he your friend?” the little girl asked. Thomas hadn't noticed it before, but she had hidden herself behind Newt, her head slightly poking out shyly. They definitely had to be siblings, or at least related in some way.

Newt was quick to defend. “No, he's not my friend. He's just a guy from my school.”

“My name's Thomas.” For some reason, Newt referring to him as “just a guy from school” stung a little, but Thomas chose to ignore and instead on trying to coax the child out from hiding. “What's your name?” he asked, putting on a friendly smile for her.

The girl slowly came out from her hiding place behind Newt. “Elizabeth,” she said softly.

“Elizabeth? That's a pretty name. Do people call you 'Lizzie'?”

“My big brother does!”

So, his assumptions had been correct and Newt really was her brother. Thomas turned his attention toward him, and his smile faltered somewhat when he saw how uncomfortable he looked. Even with family present, Newt still didn't seem to like being around others, especially his classmates. It was actually a bit heartbreaking.

Lizzie, however, seemed to be the exact opposite of her brother. “Are you in the same class?” she asked rather excitedly. “Do you eat lunch together? I eat lunch with my friends. We all sit at this big, round table with pretty, colorful chairs!”

The kid was quite the chatterbox, diverging completely away from her question and going on and on about her school and all of the friends she had made. Thomas was never too particularly fond of kids, and perhaps it was Lizzie's upbeat and positive nature, but he was enjoying her company. He was reminded of this young boy he used to babysit back in California; Chuck, if he remembered correctly. Chuck was a sweet kid with a bizarre fascination with taking his toys apart and figuring out how they worked. Thomas grew to think of him as a little brother after a while, but then Chuck's family moved away and it left him with a sort of emptiness that he had become accustomed to over the years.

“Lizzie,” Newt interrupted his sister's rambling, “how about you go find mum and dad? I'll get the bread and meet you guys in a minute.”

Lizzie pouted but didn't argue. She said goodbye to Thomas and skipped down the aisle, humming a tune he didn't recognize. It was still so bizarre that somebody as angry as Newt could have a sister so bubbly and friendly. Newt definitely didn't seem to treat Lizzie the way he treated just about everyone else, and it really made the mystery of him more intriguing. 

“I had no idea you had a sister,” Thomas commented. “She's cute.”

“What's it matter to you?” Newt asked bitterly.

Though not at all surprised by the sudden change of attitude, Thomas rolled his eyes. “It doesn't. It's just weird to see you act like you actually have a heart.”

Newt sneered and turned to walk away without saying anything else. This was seriously getting old; he would get angry, Thomas would retaliate, and then they would end up arguing. Thomas was sick of it. “Okay. Alright. Hang on a second,” he called, rushing to catch up and stopping Newt in his tracks. “I'm sorry. It's just… You can't give me attitude like that and expect me to take it.”

For the first time since Thomas had met him (other than when he was storming off), Newt was completely silent. His eyes were soft, revealing only a faint hint of anger; he was listening, and it encouraged Thomas to continue. “I don't know what your problem is, and I doubt you'll ever tell me, but if you keep pushing everyone away you're only going to end up angrier.” _You'll end up alone like my dad_. “People aren't as bad as you might think.”

Suddenly, Newt's lips curled into a small, sad smile. Thomas couldn't recall if he had ever seen him smile; this was the first time and it only made his heart heavy. The blond looked so defeated, like he had been through a war, and it was only then did Thomas realize he had just barely brushed the surface of a sensitive subject. Everything was starting to fall into place, why he avoided people like the plague and treated Thomas the way he did. Something had happened to make Newt lose his trust in people, and Thomas feared his constant presence only made it worse.

“If you knew what I knew,” Newt said softly, “you wouldn't be so fucking naive.”

A heavy feeling of dread lingered in the air. It felt as if time had stopped completely, and it almost didn't register to him when Newt turned to leave. As Thomas watched him go, a tiny, tiny part of him wanting to reach out and ask him to stay and talk, he noticed something that he couldn't believe he hadn't before.

Newt was limping.

* * *

“What's the matter, Thomas?” his mother asked. “You've been quiet.

When Thomas returned from the store, he helped put the groceries away then went straight to his room. Even when he had sat down with his mother for dinner, he remained mostly silent. He couldn't shake Newt from his mind, no matter how hard he tried. “It's nothing,” he lied. Was it okay to tell his mother? It wasn't like Newt had a psychic link with him; he wouldn't know, and it wasn't like he was telling her anything personal. “Actually, mom… Can I talk to you about something?”

His mother chuckled, though it was anything but mocking. “Of course you can,” she assured. “You can always talk to me.”

Of course she wouldn't turn him down; he should have known that. The two of them had always been close, especially after his father left. Although while Thomas felt like he could come to her with anything, this time was different. He wasn't the one struggling, not really, and a part of him was worried that this wasn't something he should bring up with her. If anything, Thomas needed her guidance.

“Well,” he began with a sigh, “there's this guy at my school that I've kinda sorta been fighting with.”

“He's bullying you?”

“No! No, god no. It's nothing like that. I think he's just been going through a tough time, but he won't talk to anyone. I want to help him, but every time I try he just gets mad and storms off. I don't know what to do.”

His mother sits in contemplation, her hands stacked on top of each other as she tries to come up with the right words. Thomas had always thought she would make a good guidance counselor; she was so kind and wise, he trusted her more than anyone. “Well, you can't make him talk to you if he isn't willing,” she said, “but the least you can do is be there for him. Even if he doesn't want your help, he'll know the sentiment is there.”

Thomas nodded, taking her words into consideration. The chances of Newt ever confiding in him were next to none, and while he definitely didn't want to pry into the blond's life or make him more uncomfortable than he probably already had his urge to understand him had increased ten fold. He wanted Newt to know that he could trust him, that he was willing to reach out his hand and help him find a few good days again. Thomas had no idea how he was going to do that, but it was as his mother said—the sentiment was there.

* * *

The following Monday, Newt was back in class. He looked much healthier than he had been; the color had returned to his face, he didn't look like he could keel over at any moment. Thomas decided to keep a respectable distance between them. If he saw him in the hallway, he would smile or wave to him, try to be friendly, and though the blond didn't return the gesture he didn't glare or snap at him, either. He seemed to understand that Thomas wasn't a threat to him, but that didn't mean he wanted to be around him or felt comfortable around him, and that was fine. It was space he needed, and Thomas would give him that.

“What did you get as the definition of facetious?” Minho asked. Thomas had gotten together with him and Brenda during lunch so that they could work on their homework for American literature. When they were assigned a book, their teacher gave them a long list of spelling words along with it, and it was their job to find them within the chapters and use context clues to determine their definitions. It wouldn't be so bad if they weren't given fifty or so words.

“Me,” Brenda stated flatly. “Definition of slacker, you. Dude, do your own homework.”

“I'm double checking!” Minho defended. “Do you know how many words I've had to memorize in the past two weeks, how many definitions? My brain feels like oatmeal.”

“Your brain _is_ oatmeal.”

Thomas couldn't help but chuckle at their banter. It was pretty easy to see that two of them had been friends for a long time, and more often than not he found himself wondering just how they met and became so close. Minho was snarky and tended to be hot-headed, while Brenda was relaxed and seemed to have a very big-sister like attitude toward everyone she meets. They could be complete opposites and yet they were thicker than thieves.

“What about you, Thomas?” Brenda asked, turning her attention away from Minho who had been sticking his tongue out at her. “How far are you into this?”

“Not very,” Thomas admitted with a sigh. They had been reading _The Great Gatsby_ and, honestly, it was hard to get invested in it, making any assignments for it difficult. He was actually quite picky about books, preferring science-fiction and mysteries over social commentary and tragedy. “A spelling list is bad enough. I have no idea how I'm going to pull off an essay.”

“Well, I know a pissy blond who might be able to help you,” Brenda teased, her gaze wandering to the back of the cafeteria, a playful smirk upon her lips.

Thomas didn't have to turn around to know who she had been referring to, but he found his attention pulled toward Newt, anyway. The blond was sitting, alone, in the very back of the cafeteria, like he always seemed to. He wasn't eating; books and papers substituting for a tray of food. Having been gone for a week, homework was sure to have piled up for him. “What makes you think he can help?” Thomas asked.

“He's in my class,” Brenda explained, drowning her baby carrots in ranch. “The guy may be an asshole, but he's pretty damn smart. I bet you he's already read that book ten times.”

“Okay, well, if you think he's such an asshole, why do you think I should ask him?”

“Thomas, please,” Minho laughed. “You've been obsessing over that boy since you first laid eyes on him.”

Thomas nearly choked on his food; his cheeks suddenly felt much hotter and he was sure they had turned crimson. “I have not!” he exclaimed, trying his hardest not to cough up a lung. To say that he had been obsessing over the blond was quite a stretch, even for Minho who often jumped to conclusions. Thomas was interested in him, but judging by Minho's tone he had been inferring something more. He would admit that Newt was attractive ( _very_ attractive, actually), but he certainly wasn't crushing on him. Not at all. “Besides, I don't think he'd want to help me even if he could.”

“Just ask him,” Brenda insisted, shoving a carrot into her mouth. “Who knows. With how often you bug him, maybe's taken a liking to you.”

Telling Minho and Brenda about his encounters with Newt had finally come back to bite him in the ass. With a huff, Thomas decided that he should probably start keeping things to himself, and that he would abandon his seat at their table and go over to Newt. That little voice in his head had come back, telling him that he was only going to end up making the poor boy feel uncomfortable (again), but as usual he ignored it. Newt was quick to notice his presence, as usual, but since his face hadn't twisted into a scowl or he hadn't walked off Thomas hoped this time wouldn't go as bad as the rest.

“Hey,” Thomas greeted, somewhat awkwardly.

“Hi.”

Honestly, Thomas wasn't expecting a response, or if he had been he'd have expected it to be very sarcastic or rude. It was strange how the sudden change in demeanor from the blond was enough to stun him into silence for a few moments, as if the Newt he had known was a mere hallucination and he was finally starting to reveal his true self. As crazy as it seemed, Thomas liked that; he wanted to see the real Newt, even if he had to spend weeks tearing down the thick walls he built around himself to do it.

“You're in Dawson's American lit class, right?” Thomas asked, fighting the urge to actually sit down. It was a stupid question; he already knew the answer thanks to Brenda, and the look on his face told him that Newt knew damn well that he knew it, too. Alright, so he wasn't the best at starting conversations, but a bad conversation starter was better than none at all.

“I'm not helping you with your homework,” Newt stated flatly.

“Wha—I didn't even ask that!”

“You were about to.”

It was unbelievable how Newt seemed to be able to read him like a book, and even a tad annoying; maybe even a little creepy. He seemed to know everything, like he could hear everything that was going on in the room, and it made Thomas wonder if Newt had heard his conversation with Minho and Brenda. No, that was insane. There was just no way! They were sitting on the other side of the cafeteria, nearly twenty feet away; he couldn't possibly have heard them.

Thomas tried to shake it off. The more he thought about it, the crazier the solutions he came up with sounded. ( _Maybe he's a mind reader._ ) “Well, anyway,” he continued, “a few have gotten together to work on the assignment. You're in the same class, so I just thought I'd ask if you wanted to join us.”

To his surprise, Newt's attention was turned toward Minho and Brenda, who seemed to have lost interest in their work completely and instead started joking around with each other. For a moment, Thomas actually thought that he would consider it, would want to spend time with people his own age, but that little flame of hope quickly extinguished when Newt shook his head. “No,” he said. “Thanks, Tommy, but I don't think pretty boy over there would want to associate himself with an alleged _serial killer_ such as myself.”

Before he could even get a word in, Newt has collected his things and abandoned the cafeteria. Thomas was left dumbfounded, repeating the blond's words over and over again in his head. He didn't sound angry, but there was something that stuck out; something that didn't sound right. _Serial killer._ Thomas remembered Minho making a joke about Newt being a serial killer a few weeks back, and he doubted he would ever make such a comment in front of Newt himself, so where was he getting this from?

How did he know?

* * *

That night, Thomas threw himself into his homework, not wanting to think about anything else. He had two tests to study for and he wasn't even close to finishing the chapters he needed for _The Great Gatsby_. With the work he had to do around the house, his mother having taken another late shift, he was stressed out to the max. All he really wanted to do was bury himself under his blankets until graduation, but unless he wanted to fail the eleventh grade his only choice was to study, study, study.

One of his tests was for chemistry, and Janson was easily proving himself to be one of the worst teachers in existence. Not only was he an utter dick, but he didn't seem to care that his students consisted of sixteen and seventeen year olds, not college seniors. His assignments were incredibly difficult, and Thomas considered science and mathematics to be his better subjects. If Janson's homework assignments were tough, Thomas was absolutely dreading the test.

The sound of his phone vibrating against his desk pulled his attention away from his homework, which he couldn't have been more thankful for. Minho was texting him.

[Minho ; 10:48PM] hey shank. u still up?

[Thomas ; 10:49PM] Was working on homework, but I'll take any excuse to get away tbh. I don't fucking care anymore

[Minho ; 10:49PM] had a feeling you'd say that

[Minho ; 10:50PM] that's why i'm outside ur house

At first Thomas thought he had misread Minho's text—he was awfully tired—but when he peered outside his bedroom window he saw Minho with his truck parked in his driveway. Even through the fogged up glass Thomas could see the smug grin on his face, making him want to roll his eyes at him. Just how long had he been waiting out there?

[Thomas ; 10:51PM] How about you call next time

[Thomas ; 10:52PM] I'll be right out, jerk

Thomas closed his textbooks and grabbed his jacket from his bed before making his way out of the house. There was nothing wrong with taking a break, he thought, and his brain had all but gone numb from the amount of studying he had done in the past few hours. He didn't mind getting away for a bit, though he definitely made sure to text his mother where he would be heading out to; no need to make her worry.

“It's almost eleven,” Thomas says the second he steps out the door. “What can there possibly be to do in Maze this late at night?” What was there to do in Maze at all was the better question.

“Not Maze,” Minho countered. “Bennington. It's just a little ways east of us. Let me ask ya something, greenie. Ever been to a Taco Bell late at night?”

“You drove over to my house at eleven at night because you wanted tacos?”

“Uh, yeah?”

There was a laugh in the back of the throat, fighting to come out, but in the end it only came out as more of a snort. Minho was so upfront about his reasoning for being there, and Thomas couldn't stop himself from smiling. “You're unbelievable,” he said, already heading over to the passenger side door.

“I try, greenie. I really try.”

Before either of them could slide into the vehicle, a sudden and chilling howl broke the silence of the night. The boys nearly jumped out of their skin, Thomas being sure he had seen the color drain of Minho's face. Days had gone by since Thomas had first hear the mysterious howling, and now it was back. “You heard that, right?” Minho asked, actually sounding mildly alarmed. Thomas looked at him with a quirked brow.

“I thought you said you've heard it before?”

“Dude, I was just messing with you! I was talking about _dogs_! I've heard _dogs_ howling!”

“Well, that was no dog...”

Thomas chose not to acknowledge Minho's confession, finding the howling more worthy of his attention. It sounded a little different than the first night; more calm and somehow demanding, as if calling for the rest of its pack. He honestly hadn't thought much about that first night after his talk with Minho and Brenda, but now there was no way he could ignore it. Minho was there to witness what he was hearing, and that made him feel much better about the situation; he wasn't hearing things, and that definitely wasn't some kind of dog.

His insides were starting to tighten with anxiety. As much as the logical part of him wanted to go back inside and locks his doors, Thomas found himself glued in place. The howling continued, and it was forming an odd mixture of fear and wonder inside him. He felt as if something was beckoning him into the woods, wanting him to follow the unearthly sounds until he found its source. At some point he heard Minho tell him to get in the truck and forget about it, but Thomas had practically tuned him out. Before he even had time to think about it, his legs moved forward. Thomas found himself once again hopping the back fence and dashing into the woods.

“Thomas!”

But it was too late. Thomas had already disappeared into the thicket; into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always known that I was impatient, but this is getting ridiculous. I feel like I'm rushing this story a little too much; feel free to tell me if I need to work on the pacing.
> 
> That aside, I'm pleased that this chapter ended up being much longer than my previous ones. You all seem to be enjoying this story so far, and I couldn't be happier about it. Thank you all so much for your support; it really means a lot to me. Feel free to tell me what you think about this chapter and offer any constructive criticism you may have. Thanks again, and I'll try to update as soon as I can!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Thomas goes rushing into the woods, he isn't sure what he expects to find, or what he'll do when he finds it. When things go awry, he finds himself in an impossible situation.

Thomas pushed through branches and jumped over logs, letting the howling guide his every move. It had begun to rain at some point, making the terrain muddy and slick; there was very little light, the moon hidden behind the clouds. He didn't know what he was doing, what demon had possessed him to make him run through the woods looking for wolves, but he found that his legs wouldn't stop moving. There was an urgent need to know the truth; he needed to know what was lurking through these woods at night, even if he had to do it himself, regardless of the danger.

What started as a light drizzle quickly turned into a downpour, and it was becoming even harder to see his surroundings. Thomas' pace slowed down, the muscles in his legs screaming for a rest. He hadn't realized the howling had stopped; he didn't realize that everything was now completely dark, and he had absolutely no idea where he was. Everything looked the same; every tree, every turn. There was no faint light from the streets, indicating that he had gone too far. Eventually he finally came to a stop, nearly slipping on wet leaves in the process. Thomas was utterly lost.

_Snap!_

Aside from the raindrops pounding on the earth, the woods had been eerily silent. A branch snapping sent chills down Thomas' spine; his heart felt as if it had stopped. Someone—or something—was behind him. _Snap!_ His heart jumped out of his chest. Thomas couldn't remember the last time he'd been so terrified or felt so helpless. He didn't want to turn around, but the sound of footsteps only drew closer. _Snap! Snap!_ He didn't want to turn around, but his body slowly started to turn on its own, and then there was a hand on his shoulder.

Thomas let out a horrified scream, his arms involuntarily flailing to defend himself from whoever or whatever it was that grabbed him. There was another scream to mask his own. A familiar voice rang in his ears. “What the hell are you doing out here, dumbass!”

It was Minho. The taller boy was soaking wet. His hair stuck to his forehead and his jeans were nearly covered in mud, and Thomas suspected he couldn't have looked much better. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Minho proceeded, his voice dripping with a mixture of panic and anger. “You can't just go running into the woods like that! You don't know what's out here!”

Thomas knew Minho was right, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Reality was slowly starting to set back in. It was crazy, running into the woods in the pouring rain following the sound of what may or may not be a wolf, and he suddenly felt like slapping himself for being so stupid. Besides, what if it had been wolves? It wasn't like he could actually do anything about it, let alone fight them off if he decided to maul him.

"Pretty boy makes sense."

The boys nearly crashed into each other with how quickly they jumped; Thomas couldn't stop himself from releasing another small scream. He had to squint in order for his eyes to adjust, and he simply couldn't believe what he was seeing. Standing in the pouring rain, completely soaked and looking angrier than ever, was Newt. Thomas had no idea when or how long he had been standing there; he had only heard one set of footsteps before. It was like the blond had materialized out of thin air.

“What are you doing out here?” Newt asked.

“We can ask you the same thing,” Minho spat back, crossing his arms. Thomas wasn't liking the tone either of them were using, and he was worried this would only end in a fight. “Looking for a couple of cute little bunnies you can terrorize? Maybe strip the meat off their bones and feed them to your dogs?”

“No, but I don't think they've ever tasted a jackass before.”

Thomas stepped in front of Minho when he saw him take a few steps forward, clearly ready to start a fight. He couldn't have expected anything else from Newt, but this was certainly not the time or the place for an argument. “Knock it off,” Thomas demanded, turning his attention toward Newt. “We're not looking for a fight. We're just a little lost. That's all.”

Newt's glare seemed to soften a little, but he looked far from convinced. “There's a jeep trail just a little ways north of here,” he explained. “It's easy to find, and it leads to Third Street. You can figure out how to get home from there.”

A weight had lifted off Thomas' shoulders when Minho didn't retort. Perhaps the night wouldn't end in a blood bath, and they could all go home and pretend this never happened. Newt didn't say anything, only turned to walk away, but before either of them could even take one step a loud _bang_ practically sent all three of them ten feet into the air. A gun had been fired; there was no doubt about it.

And it sounded dangerously close.

“Thomas,” Minho said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Thomas, let's go. We have to go. _Now_.”

It was as if time had stopped. Everything had fallen silent, and the only way Minho managed to get Thomas to move was by grabbing his arm and pulling on him, forcing him to move. He was about to take off running, following Minho, until he realized Newt was still standing ten feet away, frozen in place. “Newt, come on,” he called to him. “Come on! Come with us!”

The blond refused to move or even respond. Despite his own fear eating away at him, Thomas somehow found the courage to run up to Newt and grab him by the arm. There was a nutcase running around with a gun; he wasn't just going to abandon him. “Newt, let's go! Move your ass!”

“Get off me!” Newt snapped, his eyes blown wide with panic. He struggled to get out of Thomas' grip, and once he was free he took off running in the direction of the gunfire.

“Newt!” Thomas called out to him, dashing after him. _What the hell is he doing!_ The rain had made the ground extra slippery. He had tripped on mud and branches several times, slowing him down, and before he knew it Newt was out of sight. No matter how hard he looked, how many twists and turns he took, the bond was nowhere to be seen. _Fuck. Fuck!_ “Whoa!”

Thomas wasn't sure what it was he had tripped on—a branch or his own two feet—but when he failed to find his balance he tumbled down a small hill, landing on some rocks in a creek. His whole body ached. He was covered from head to toe in mud and scratches littered his hands and face. A part of him just wanted to lie there, and if it wasn't forty or so degrees he probably would have. Besides, he had to find Newt. The blond may be a stubborn, angry, pain in the ass, but there was no way Thomas was going to leave him stranded in the middle of the woods, at night, alone, where somebody was loose with a gun.

“There you are, you little shit.”

There was splashing, and when Thomas looked up he found that a gun had been pointed at him. It was a man in a leather jacket, and even though it was too dark to make out any more details he was sure he didn't recognize him, let alone had the faintest idea as to why he would want to point a gun at him. As much as he wanted to jump to his feet and run, run far away and never look back, Thomas was completely frozen. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. There was only one thing on his mind: _I'm going to die_.

He heard a click. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear what was to happen next. What about his mother? She had no idea where he really was, and now she was going to find out tomorrow morning when the police showed up to her door to tell her that they found her seventeen year old son's corpse in the woods with six rounds in his chest. First her father, then her husband; now she was going to lose her child. When his parent's got a divorce, he swore he'd be there for her, to take care of her. He failed her.

There were others who suddenly came to mind; Minho, Brenda, _Newt_. He was never going to see any of them again, all because he was a fucking idiot.

_Bang!_

Thomas' whole body shook. There was a ringing in his ears from the gunshot, but there was no pain to accompany it. There were no holes in his chest or his head; no new injuries. He was fine, and when he hesitantly opened his eyes he saw why. Newt had arrived at some point and jumped in the way, taking the bullet for him. His body collapsed into the water, and all Thomas could do was stare at his lifeless body, blood oozing from his shoulder.

“Shit,” the shooter grumbled, struggling with his rifle. It seemed to be jammed, and Thomas took that as his opportunity to pick himself up bolt out of there.

Just when he pulled himself up off he ground, Thomas took one last glance at Newt, only there was something very different about the blond. Perhaps it was the fear and panic giving him hallucinations, but Newt's body appeared to be shifting; his limbs were starting to look more animal and there was hair where there shouldn't be. He stood in awe for as long as he dared, as long as it took the gunman to fix his weapon, and he was afraid his eyes might fall out of their sockets at what he was currently looking at.

Newt was a dog. No, not a dog—a wolf.

Thomas heard plastic and metal clicking together, and that was his cue to run, not wanting to see whether or not the gunman had managed to fix his gun. He turned on his heel and ran as quickly as his muscles allowed, refusing to look back. He ran and ran until he couldn't possibly run anymore. His chest was pounding, his breathing ragged. Tonight was starting to feel like an awful nightmare, and he wanted so desperately to wake up. There was a faint light in the distance, one he could only hope to God was his back porch light.

_Wait_ , he suddenly thought. _What about Newt?_

The concern for the boy was enough to make Thomas bring himself to a halt. He was so sure of what he had seen; Newt had turned into a wolf, and that alone was bound to keep him up for days. Not only that, but the blond had taken a bullet for him. _I can't just leave him_.

As much as he wanted to keep going, to run home and lock all of his doors and windows and hug his mother so tightly his arms went numb, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. He needed to go back; he _had_ to go back. Newt was back there, bleeding and freezing and lying—or worse, dying—in an icy creek. It would be terrible to abandon him, to let his family suffer, especially Lizzie. There was no way he could live with himself, and so he turned on his heel and took off once more.

It was strange how it seemed the gunman hadn't followed him, though he wasn't going to complain. He had somehow managed to find his way back to the hill, and the man was nowhere to be seen; it was as if he had vanished, and Thomas couldn't have been more relieved. He made his way back down the creek, where Newt's new body was still lying completely still. Thomas' body was shaking as he slowly approached him. His brain was working overtime; a part of him told him to run, the other told him to stay, and he just couldn't believe what he was looking at. A wolf that had once been a teenage boy, and there was only one word that Thomas could think of: _werewolf_.

Upon further inspection, he noticed that Newt's body was a bit larger than any wolf breed he could think of. He could see him breathing, his torso rising and falling slowly, and it lifted a huge weight from Thomas' shoulders. _He's alive_ , he thought. _Thank god_. There was a bullet wound in his shoulder blade, but it looked like he would survive.

Thomas slowly knelt down, reaching out his hands to gently touch the wolf, to examine the injury. He hadn't thought much of the low growling until Newt's head snapped up, snarling with vicious fangs that made him jump back a few feet. “It's okay!” Thomas exclaimed. “It's okay! It's just me. It's Thomas. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to help.”

That seemed to be all the wolf needed to allow his body to relax, or perhaps he was just far too exhausted and in pain. Thomas hated this; hated seeing him in such a helpless state. He dared to inch closer to him, kneeling toward him again and carefully placing a hand on his stomach. He felt Newt flinch underneath his touch, but he didn't try to bite him again. Even his growls had turned into pained whimpers. It was like looking at a kicked puppy, and before Thomas could put much thought into what he was doing he gently pulled the wolf's head into his lap, cradling him.

His mind had gone blank; Thomas had no idea what he was supposed to do or how he could help Newt. The boy had turned into a fucking wolf for god's sake. There was no way he could tell anybody and not have them look at him like he was insane, but he doubted the police would care very much for a wounded wolf out in the middle of the woods. _What do I do_ , he asked himself. _What do I do? What do I **do**?_

“Thomas!”

If it hadn't been for the howling and gunfire, somebody yelling his name in the middle of the woods would probably be the most terrifying thing he had heard all night. Minho had appeared out of the thicket, and Thomas couldn't have been happier to see him, though the joy was short lived when he saw the terror in his eyes. “There you are!” Minho exclaimed, trying to catch his breath. “I've been looking all over the place for you! I thought you were right behind me and—”

Minho could hardly finish his sentence once he looked down and found what kind of state Thomas was in, what he was holding in his arms. His eyes were wide, and Thomas noticed he had taken a few steps back. “What the hell is that?”

“Minho,” Thomas said carefully, “I know this is going to sound absolutely crazy, and you're probably not going to believe me but… This wolf is, or was, Newt.” Saying it aloud made him feel absolutely ridiculous, and the look of bafflement Minho was giving him only made it worse. He was actually suggesting that a teenage boy had turned into a wolf, and though he had seen it with his own eyes it still seemed crazy. Impossible. _Insane_.

“Wha—Okay, hang on a second. You mean to tell me that this wolf—this _thing_ —is Newt?”

“I know it sounds nuts, but I'm telling you the truth! I'll explain everything later, but right now, if we don't do something, he's going to die. I need you to help me!”

Minho had fallen silent. There was a look of contemplation written on his face, as if he were debating with himself whether or not he would heed Thomas' request. After a moment or two, he heaved a heavy sigh. “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay, I'll help you. But what do you think we can do for him? I mean, if this really is Newt, we can't just show up to the hospital with him looking like this. They'll think we're lunatics.”

It was true. Thomas knew that a hospital was out of the question; even if they didn't think of them as complete nutcases, there was probably little to nothing they could do for an animal. _Wait a second_. “What about a vet?” Thomas asked.

“What?”

“A vet! Does this town have a vet?”

“Uh, I think… Yeah, yeah, it does. Brenda's uncle owns it.”

“Then that'll have to do.”

“Are you serious? That's for _pets_ , like dogs and cats! What makes you think he'll take a wolf?”

“You got any better ideas!”

Thomas could see that Minho wanted to retort, but nothing came to mind. He knew they were out of options, that Brenda's uncle was their only choice, and if they had to they (or at least Thomas) would beg him to help. There was nothing else they could do. Getting him there, however, was a different matter. “Newt said something about a jeep trail around here,” Thomas said. “It leads to Third Street. You know the area better than I do. Do you think you can get your truck up here?”

“Yeah, but you really think he'll fit in the front?” Minho asked. “Man, we can't put him in the back. What if someone sees him?”

Another good point, and Thomas knew that, even if they were strong enough to lift him, they couldn't possibly carry him across town. Their options were dwindling by the second, and a new panic was starting to make Thomas' heart pound against his chest. _I can't let him die_ , he thought. _Not now. Not like this_.

“Wait,” Minho said suddenly. “Wait, Brenda's parents drive a van. We can put the seat down in the back and put him there.”

“Call her. Tell her to get down here. I don't think he has a lot of time left...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote this chapter, it actually exceeded thirteen pages. THIRTEEN PAGES! I haven't written that much (aside from one-shots) in a long time, and as much as I wanted to keep it all as one chapter I knew I had to separate it, so you'll be getting two chapters today instead of one. I hope you guys like them! I'm exceptionally proud of them :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is introduced to Brenda's uncle, who seems to know more than any ordinary veterinarian. Finally, somebody is willing to give him some answers (kind of); too bad it's under such awful circumstances.

In all honesty, Thomas hadn't expected Brenda to actually show up, but when he saw two lights approaching them from afar a wave of relief washed over him. He wasn't sure what Minho had told her, and he didn't care. She was here; Newt was going to be okay. That's what he told himself.

The vehicle had stopped about twenty or thirty feet away. A small figure stepped out, carrying a flashlight, and as they came toward them Thomas could see that it was, indeed, Brenda. He couldn't recall ever being so happy to see someone in his life. She was wearing a raincoat over what he assumed were her pajamas, sweatpants and a T-shirt that looked a tad too big on her, so she had probably been asleep before Minho called her.

“Are you guys okay!” Brenda called out. She sounded like she was in a fluster, not that Thomas could blame her. “What the hell happened? Minho said you guys were running from—oh my god!”

When Brenda approached them, she was quick to notice the large wolf in Thomas' arms. She let out a sharp gasp and jumped back a few feet, her jaw dropped wide in pure disbelief of what she was seeing. “What the hell is that!” she exclaimed. “Is that a wolf? What the hell are you doing with a _wolf_!”

“We'll explain later,” Thomas insisted. “Right now we need to help him. Where does your uncle live?”

“My uncle?” She looked confused, like she had no idea how Thomas knew about her uncle or why he would need to know where he lived. If Minho hadn't told her everything, she probably didn't. But with one look at the animal in his arms she quickly managed to put the pieces together. “You don't actually think he can help that thing, do you?”

“Stop calling him a thing!” Thomas suddenly snapped, startling both Minho and Brenda. Admittedly, he wasn't sure why he had shouted; perhaps it was his worry for the wolf boy. He couldn't imagine how terrified he was. Not only was there a bullet lodged in his shoulder, but he had shifted in front of him; he was in the form of a wolf in front of three people he didn't trust—couldn't trust—and Thomas could practically feel him shaking. “Look, there's a bullet stuck in his shoulder blade. I think he's dying. Your uncle is the best chance he's got. Now, _please_. Help us. Help him.”

Brenda had been stunned into silence. Her gaze drifted over to Minho who looked less than certain of the current situation himself. Thomas knew he was asking a lot from both of them, but what else was he supposed to do, let Newt die? There was no way. “It's Newt,” Minho explained, earning a puzzled look from Brenda. He sounded as tired as he looked. “I know it sounds crazy, but it is and Thomas is right. We need to get him to someone or he's not going to make it to morning.”

There's a heavy, suffocating silence between them, like a void that not even the rain could fulfill. Thomas couldn't tell how much time had passed; a minute, five minutes. It all went by so slowly. Brenda sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “I can't believe this,” she mumbled to no one in particular. “My car's just over there. I'll put down the seats while you two carry him over.”

And so they did. The three of them wasted no time, Brenda rushing to her car while the boys tried figuring out a way to carry Newt without hurting him further. The moment Minho put his hands on him, Newt snarled and snapped at him, clearly not wanting any more people touching him than there already was. “Well, we know he's still alive,” Minho grumbled, rolling his eyes.

“Cut it out, Newt,” Thomas seethed. “He's just trying to help.”

Eventually, the two of them did manage to find a way to pick up and carry Newt over to Brenda's car. He was still growling somewhat, clearly unhappy with the arrangement, but he didn't try to bite either of them again. They carefully lied him in the back of the van, Thomas climbing in after him, not wanting to leave him alone. Brenda hit the gas as soon as Minho slipped in and closed the passenger side door.

Thomas focused his attention on Newt. He tried to examine the wound as best as he could, but it was too difficult to see much in the dark; he couldn't even tell if he had stopped bleeding. There was another whimper, and he found himself actually stroking the wolf boy's fur. It was damp and rough, covered in mud and blood. It was strange to think that this was once a human being, or what looked like a human being. Thomas had so many questions, and it was almost physically painful for him to hold them back. Newt wouldn't be able to answer them, and even if he could it would probably only come out as barks and howls.

The only thing that filled the silence was the pitter-patter of the rain against the car. None of them said a word, probably not knowing what to say. Thomas had his doubts that Minho and Brenda actually believed him about Newt, but he supposed that, for the time being, it didn't matter; so long as they were willing to help.

The remainder of the drive went by so quickly that Thomas couldn't remember most of it, far too preoccupied keeping Newt conscious. They pulled in somewhere and Brenda turned the car off, so it was safe to assume that they had arrived at her uncle's house. “Stay here,” Brenda ordered. “I'll be right back.” With that, she hopped out of the car and slammed the door shut behind her. It suddenly occurred to Thomas what time it was, how late it was; Brenda's uncle could be sleeping and then a couple of teenagers drive up to his door with a wolf in the trunk. If it were him, Thomas would definitely turn them away.

“How's he holding up?” Minho asked, breaking the silence.

“I don't know,” Thomas admitted with a wavering sigh. “He's gotten really quiet and hasn't moved a muscle in a while.”

“Is he dead?”

“God, I hope not. I think he's just weak.”

Minho had fallen silent again. When Thomas looked back at him, he could see a hint of worry of his eyes. It was a look of contemplation, like he was thinking over carefully about what he would say next, if he should say anything at all. Thomas hadn't known him for very long, but he couldn't recall him ever looking so mature; so serious.

“You know, I'm still not sure I believe you,” he finally said, rubbing the back of his neck. “About Newt, I mean.”

“I know.”

“I mean, I don't think you'd lie about something like this, but it's a lot to take in, ya know?”

“I know...” Honestly, Thomas wasn't even sure if he believed it himself. A boy turning into a wolf? It was impossible, but he knew what he saw. On the off chance that the shock hadn't made him hallucinate the whole thing, he needed to help Newt. He needed to save him.

The sound of somebody pounding on the window startled the boys and brought Thomas out of his thoughts; it was Brenda. She ran to the back of the van and opened the trunk. There were towels in her hand, and an anxious glint in her eyes. “He said he'll help, but we've gotta hurry,” she explained, handing over the towels to Thomas. “We don't know how much blood he's lost and that bullet is still lodged in his shoulder. If he doesn't get it out soon, it could lead to an infection and he could die.”

Thomas didn't need anymore convincing to start moving. He and Minho climbed out of the car and carefully wrapped the towels around the wolf boy, this time with no difficulty. Getting him out of the car was a bit easier than getting him inside, and when they stepped into the building they were met with an older, dark-skinned gentleman with graying hair wearing a white coat over his clothes. There was medical equipment on the coffee table, making Thomas assume that he either ran his clinic from his own home or he kept extra equipment in case of emergencies.

“Put him on the couch,” the man ordered, moving to help the teens. “Careful now. Don't agitate the wound.”

Thomas thought it was strange how calm the man was about a wolf being brought into his home. It was hard to imagine that this was a common occurrence, or that he had treated wolves in the past, but at the moment all Thomas cared about was that he was willing to help. “Is he going to be okay?” he asked, taking a step back so that Brenda's uncle could examine the injury. Much to his surprise, the man smiled.

“Oh, he'll survive,” the man said with a chuckle. He turned toward the coffee table and grabbed a syringe. Thomas cringed; he didn't want to know what was in it or what it was supposed to do. “He'll survive, but I'm going to need you boys to hold him down for a second.”

“Why us?” Minho asked, somewhat irritably.

“Because Brenda's my niece,” the man explained simply. “I'm not going to make her hold down a vicious animal. You two are nothing to me.”

If Minho's eye rolling could make a sound, Thomas was sure it would sound like an angry groan. Nonetheless, the two of them made their way over to the couch and put their hands down on Newt, Minho somewhat more hesitantly. Thomas tried his best not to look at the syringe in the man's hand, but it was inevitable. His gazed wandered and he saw the syringe being inserted just outside the bullet wound, so he wasn't too surprised what happened next. Newt let out a pained howl, his body squirming to be freed from their grasp.

“Hold him down!” The man shouted.

“We're trying!” Thomas retorted.

Even in his weakened state, Brenda had to jump in and help prevent Newt from escaping. When her uncle finally injected him with whatever it was inside the syringe, his body stilled. Newt's muscles relaxed, the dreadful howls of agony had ceased, and a small part of Thomas wondered if the man had killed him. They slowly backed away, remaining silent.

“Well,” Brenda's uncle sighed, “that wasn't so bad, was it?”

_Easy for you to say_. Thomas wasn't sure what to think about Brenda's uncle. He couldn't understand how somebody, even a veterinarian, could be so calm in the presence of a wild (supposedly vicious) animal. He had no idea how he knew exactly what to do, how he already had everything prepared like this was just any other mundane thing to happen on a daily basis. Just when he thought he was starting to make sense of things, more questions would rear their ugly heads.

“Alright you kids,” Brenda's uncle said, snatching Thomas away from his thoughts. “Out of here. I need room to work, and I don't think he's going to want to heal with a bunch of eyes staring at him.”

Minho looked like he wanted to say something, but Brenda stopped him before he could. She made a gesture with her hand for them to follow her, probably intending on taking them both home, but Thomas refused to move. He looked down at Newt lying motionless on the couch, his breathing slow, and his heart bled for him. “I'm staying,” he stated.

“Thomas,” Brenda sighed, and though he felt guilty for being difficult there was no way he was going to change his mind.

“I'm not leaving him,” he insisted. “He's already scared. I don't want to leave him alone with a stranger… No offense, uh, sir.”

“Please,” Brenda's uncle chuckled. There was an amused grin on his lips; a strange sight with him cleaning off the dried blood from a wolf. “Call me Jorge, and that's actually not a bad idea. It'd be better for him to wake up to a familiar face.”

This time, it was Brenda who looked like she wanted to protest. Thomas had to remind himself that only he had seen what had become of Newt, that only he was certain of what (who) was lying in front of them. As far as Minho and Brenda were concerned, were telling themselves over and over, this was just some poor animal that he had hallucinated to be a teenage boy. Either she was trying her best to believe in him or she simply felt pity for him, Brenda's features softened. There was a small smile on her lips, making her look more gentle and mature.

Somehow, they had reached an agreement for Thomas to stay.

* * *

It seemed like an eternity had passed, though Thomas knew it couldn't have been more than a half hour. The only thing Jorge had asked of him was to keep quiet and, if Newt acted up again, to pet and talk to him in a soothing tone. (Honestly, it was incredibly awkward knowing that it wasn't an actual wolf he was petting, but Newt who just happened to have taken the form of a wolf.) Jorge had cleaned the wound and carefully removed the bullet from his shoulder, which Thomas had to look away from, the very sight of him making him nauseous. He had asked if he needed him to do anything else, but each time Jorge either wouldn't respond or would tell him to just keep doing whatever it was he was doing; petting and keeping Newt's mind off of the gaping hole in his shoulder.

“Is he going to be okay?” Thomas asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Jorge looked at him with a puzzled look. He had already started wrapping the wound with gauze, and after everything he had done it was probably an odd question to him, especially since he had already explained that the wolf boy would live through the night. “He's gonna be sore for a while, but he'll be fine,” he said, sounding as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A bullet like that wouldn't kill him right away, especially if it misses the vital organs, like the heart or lungs. He just needs some time to rest and heal, and he'll be back to his old self in no time.”

There was something about the explanation that baffled Thomas, made the gears in his brain turn. “You seem to know a lot about this,” he pondered. “Have you worked with wolves before?”

“Many times” Jorge said, the grin returning to his features. “This isn't the first time a wolf has come through my door like this, and it probably won't be the last.”

“What did you mean when you said a bullet like that wouldn't kill him right away?” Thomas went on, unable to keep each question pouring from his mouth. The desire to know was too great and practically eating him alive from the inside. He needed answers, and he needed them now. “How long would it have taken? What kind of bullet was it? It looked like a silver bullet but, I mean… Is he a—”

“Werewolf?” Jorge interrupted, his brow quirked as if challenging him to finish his sentence.

Suddenly, it felt like Thomas' mouth had been sewed shut. Hearing the word out loud, how ridiculous it all sounded, was enough to make him wish for this all to be a dream; a terrible, terrible dream that he desperately needed to wake up from. He was sitting in the middle of a strange man's living room with an injured wolf he swore up and down to be his classmate, conjuring up ideas of werewolves actually existing. No, it was too much for him to process. It was insane! And yet the amused smirk never left Jorge's lips.

Jorge started cleaning up his equipment before Thomas could say anything else, leaving him in a heavy silence. Thomas would be lying if he said he knew all about the werewolf lore, but from what little he did know he tried thinking back to every encounter with Newt, looking for clues or vague hints that would indicate that the man's preposterous proposal was, in fact, true. A werewolf's ultimate weakness was, of course, silver; they had remarkable hearing, and perhaps that would explain how Newt always seemed to know when Thomas was near, how he knew things that he couldn't possibly know unless he was standing right beside him to listen to it all.

The distrust toward people… No, not just people; _humans_.

Thomas' head was starting to spin. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to deny what was clearly—and literally—lying in front of him as the truth. Somebody else had even said it aloud, which made him feel less crazy but it certainly didn't help. Werewolves were real; Newt was a werewolf. How many others were out there? Were their other supernatural creatures; vampires? Wendigo? Banshees?

“You're thinking too hard about it, hermano,” Jorge called from the other room. Thomas hadn't even realized he left. “Nothing about him's changed. He's still the same grumpy, dysfunctional and anti-social teenage boy you knew.” Jorge came back into the living room with a couple of blankets and an extra set of clothes. He handed the blankets to Thomas, telling him to split them up between the two of them (“He's going to be freezing when he wakes up, and I get the feeling that you're not leaving until he does, so you might as well get comfortable.”), and sat the clothes down on the coffee table.

“So, you know him?” Thomas asked, draping one of the blankets over Newt. “How do you know him? Wait, has he come to you before? Has he been _shot_ before?”

Jorge let out a laugh. “Relax, kid. I know his parents. His father's a good ol' friend of mine. Now, if you don't mind, I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed. Try to do us all a favor, including yourself, don't bombard him with questions the second he wakes up. He was pissy enough before he was shot, and I don't want you making it worse. G'night.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, but he didn't protest. He watched Jorge disappear down the hall before realizing how tired he was himself. His eyes were heavy, and there was no way of preventing the drawn out yawn that nearly brought tears to his eyes. It had been one hell of a night, and he just wanted to put it behind him. He wanted to forget about the hunter in the woods; he wanted to forget about nearly being shot down and Newt running to his rescue. Most importantly, he wanted to forget the horror of Newt almost dying in his arms.

Leaning against a couch, his head resting on the cushion, wasn't the most comfortable position, but when he felt his body go limp and his eyes refused to open it didn't seem to matter. The events of the day had finally caught up with him, and he was out in seconds, his subconscious doing its best to suppress the memories of only three hours ago. _Jesus, has it really only been a couple of hours?_

Unfortunately, Thomas wasn't at peace for too long; no matter how hard they tried, his dreams kept shifting into nightmares. The gunfire rang in his ears, as if it had only just gone off, and the disturbing image of Newt's blood on his hands haunted him. He wanted to think about something else. Anything else. His mom. Minho and Brenda. His stupid cat that tried to bite him every time he fed him. Nothing helped.

“Tommy…?”

The sound of his name was enough to pull him out of his nightmares, much to his relief. His body still felt weak, his thoughts fuzzy, but the exhaustion seemed to melt away the second he realized just who it was that had awakened him: Newt. The blond was awake and, somehow, back in his own body—his human body, anyway. He looked awful; his skin was sickly pale and there were dark circles underneath his eyes. The gauze that Jorge had applied were still wrapped tightly around his left shoulder, a small amount of blood still seeping through.

In spite of it all, Thomas couldn't have been happier. Newt was _alive_ , and he couldn't have been more grateful.

“Why are you here?” Newt asked softly. He didn't sound quite awake which, despite the terrible circumstances, Thomas actually found adorable—not that he was going to admit that aloud.

“Well, I didn't feel comfortable leaving you here with a stranger,” Thomas explained, forcing himself to smile. “But then I found out that Jorge's hardly a stranger, so I guess I just wanted a reason to sleep next to you.”

Newt rolled his eyes, and Thomas immediately regretted speaking. _Why the hell did I say that_ , he asked himself, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep or, better yet, disappear. _I sound like some kind of perverted old man. Fuck_. To make matters worse, when Newt sat up on the couch and the blanket fell from his shoulders to his waist, it finally occurred to him why Jorge had laid out an extra set of clothes, why Newt would be freezing; he was completely naked.

Quickly, to the point where he thought his neck would snap, Thomas turned to look the other way, his cheeks turning crimson and feeling much hotter. He wasn't sure if Newt realized he, albeit accidentally, looked (not that he could see much) or if he didn't particularly care at the moment, but it still felt utterly wrong. It felt wrong to look at him in such a vulnerable state, and it _definitely_ felt wrong to wish that he could see just a _little_ bit more of him.

“Oh, um,” Thomas cleared his throat, trying to chase away the filthy thought. He still refused to look Newt's way. “Jorge left some clothes out for you. He figured you'd need them.”

Newt grumbled something that Thomas couldn't decipher, but he didn't say anything directly to him. He reached over to grab the extra set of clothes, and Thomas actually had to turn around and cover his eyes. The blond didn't seem to care that Thomas was in the room with him, probably too tired to care, and he didn't hesitate to start dressing himself.

_Don't look_ , Thomas scolded himself. _Don't look. Don't look. Don't look._ He repeated this to himself over and over, like a mantra, yet no matter times he did so he found his gaze hesitantly wandering, his fingers separating slightly. The little voice was back, barking at him to turn back around and stop acting like a creep, but as always he ignored it. His heart was pounding and his cheeks felt as if they were on fire; he ignored that, too. He had turned just enough to see the curve of his back, his ass…

“Whatever you're doing, stop it,” Newt suddenly demanded, startling Thomas. “You're heart's pounding like crazy and it's annoying.”

Thomas immediately turned away, his face flushed with embarrassment. It didn't seem like Newt knew what he was doing, and if that was the case he wanted to keep it that way. He needed to focus on something else, and though Jorge told him not to, he figured now would be the best time to get some real answers out of Newt. “You can hear my heartbeat?” he asked.

“If I focus, yes,” the blond explained. “I'm tired, so it sounds louder than usual to me.”

“What else can you hear? Like, how good is your hearing?”

“Better than yours. I promise ya that.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, but he didn't press the matter further, knowing that if Newt wasn't going to give him a straight answer the first time he probably wouldn't be willing the second time. He felt a presence besides him, and when he finally dared to look again he found the blond, fully dressed, sitting back down on the couch, wrapping the previously abandoned blanket around himself. “Is that how you always knew where I was?” he asked. “You listened for my heartbeat?”

“I didn't always know where _you_ were, you dingbat,” Newt corrected, a lack of heat to his tone despite the insult. “I knew _someone_ was there. A heartbeat is a heartbeat. They all sound the same. Fuck, I'm freezing.”

He was pushing it; Thomas knew that. Though he seemed more willing to offer answers than he ever had before, he was sure that Newt didn't appreciate the game of Twenty Questions. Despite this, the sight of the shivering blond was enough to push the worry of annoying him far to the side and climb up next to him on the couch. He wouldn't touch him; that would be going too far, but he would take the blanket Jorge had given him and wrap it around his quivering frame. “Here,” he said. “You need it more than I do.”

Newt gave him a questioning look. The faint light from the table lamp in the corner made him look much older than he actually was, more sullen and mature. For some reason, it sent Thomas' heart fluttering. “Why?” Newt asked, his voice just barely above a whisper.

“Why what?” Thomas countered, genuinely puzzled.

“Why didn't you run? Why did you save me? I'm a freak. A _monster_. You should've hightailed it outta there the second you saw me. So why didn't you?”

Every word struck him like a punch in the stomach. Newt had actually _expected_ to be left behind, left for dead, and it made Thomas feel sick. Admittedly, yes, his initial reaction was to run away as far as he could, but not from Newt; from the hunter. He wasn't entirely sure what had happened at the time, but he knew that he saw him jump in the line of fire for him. “Well, you saved me first,” Thomas said lamely. “Actually, I did run away at first. I ran and ran and never looked back. It was all just too much. I had to get out of there. By the time I realized what happened, I knew I had to go back. I couldn't just leave you like that… I couldn't let you die.”

It wasn't his intention to practically pour his heart out to the blond, but when the words came pouring out of his mouth he couldn't stop. He just wanted Newt to understand, to know that he didn't have to be alone. There were people out there worthy of his trust; he just needed to find them. Newt remained quiet, as if debating with himself whether or not to believe him. A solid minute had passed, maybe two, until the blond's features softened. He sighed heavily. “I believe you,” he said. “As much as I want to think you're full of shit, I can tell you ain't lying.”

A weight felt like it had been lifted from Thomas' shoulders. Newt trusting him was a milestone, and he could only hope that he'll improve from there. Thomas wouldn't take his trust as an invitation into his life, but so long as Newt allowed it he would continue to build that trust. He would continue to tear down those walls, brick by brick, and see the blond for who he really was, because he wasn't a monster. Not even close.

“Thank you, Tommy…” Newt paused, looking apologetic. “Erm, Thomas.”

Strangely, Thomas couldn't stop himself from smiling. He wasn't sure why; either he was reassuring the blond or some other second thing that he couldn't figure out. “Actually,” he said, “Tommy's starting to grow on me.”

Much to his surprise (and pleasure), Newt's lips curled into a small smile; a genuine smile. For a brief moment, he looked happy, as if maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay. It was a look Thomas could get used to seeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I get to the fluff, and there's more where that came from.


	7. Chapter 7

Thomas couldn't remember falling asleep, but when he woke up the next morning, his neck stiff and muscles weak, he knew he must have. He let out a yawn that nearly brought him to tears, and before he could get up he noticed a weight on his shoulder. The first thing that came to mind was Jojo; somehow the cat had gotten into his room during the night and had claimed him as a pillow, but with one quick glance around the room he suddenly remembered that he wasn't in his room. He wasn't even in his own house, and that was not his cat on his shoulder.

The events of last night came flooding back in a flash. The hunter. Newt dying in his arms. It was like reliving a nightmare. When he finally turned toward the sleeping figure, finding Newt leaning against his shoulder, still asleep, his heart had nearly stopped. It wasn't like the blond was on top of him; they weren't really cuddling, but it was intimate enough to turn his cheeks pink. He was so used to the scowl on Newt's face, for a little while he thought it might have been permanent. It was rare to see him so relaxed, so peaceful. Thomas had never been so close to him, and perhaps it was the early morning clouding his judgment, but he couldn't help but stare.

He was beautiful.

Several loud and sudden knocks made Thomas jump, jostling Newt out of his unconscious state if the noise hadn't already. Jorge appeared out of the kitchen, looking as if he had been awake for the past hour or so with a cup of coffee in his hand. Unlike them, he didn't appear anxious about somebody pounding on his door so early in the morning. “Morning, boys,” he greeted simply before opening the door. Almost immediately, a frantic woman came marching inside; Jorge still didn't look fazed.

“Where is he?” the woman asked, sounding surprisingly more calm than she looked. “Where's my son? Where's my baby?”

Newt's mother. Thomas supposed he should have known with the blonde hair and thick English accent. When she turned around he could see she had a similar jaw structure and the same brown eyes. Definitely his mother.

Newt stood up off the couch, though before he could say anything his mother rushed toward him and pulled him into her, holding him tightly. It was an odd angle, seeing as how Newt was at least two feet taller. Her sighs of relief sounded more like strained sobs, and while Thomas was happy that they were finally reunited he couldn't shake off the feeling of guilt. He had made this poor woman worry about her son's life, had probably made her think she'd never see her baby again.

It reminded him of his own mother, and how he was probably going to get an earful when he got home.

“I'm fine, mum,” Newt stated softly, hugging his mother closely regardless of his assurances. He seemed to have missed her just as much as she missed him.

Another figure stepped inside, this time a man, whom Thomas could only assume to be Newt's father. He, too, made a dash for his son, wrapping his arms around Newt's slender frame the second his wife let go. “You scared us to death,” he said. “We thought you were…”

The man didn't finish his sentence, which Thomas was thankful for. As much as he would have liked to have gone unnoticed by the two, Newt's mother turned to him. A part of him thought she was going to blame him for putting her son in danger, for nearly getting him killed, but the look on her face wasn't angry. There was a gleam of hope in her eyes, as if she had witnessed a miracle. “Are you Thomas?” she asked.

“Yeah?” There was no time to react. Before Thomas could ask how Newt's mother knew his name, or even wanted to know it was him, she pulled him into a hug. Thomas didn't know how to react; his muscles froze and his mind went blank.

“Thank you,” she said, letting him go. There was a wide smile on her face; Thomas was sure he had never seen anybody so happy. So relieved. “Thank you for saving my son.”

_He wouldn't have needed saving if I hadn't been so stupid._ Thomas suddenly felt awkward. There was a discomfort settling in his stomach. He didn't know what would have happened if he hadn't gone into the woods, if things would have turned out differently; he didn't even know why Newt was there to begin with, and yet he was wracked with guilt. It didn't feel right for his mother to be thanking him. Did she not blame him, or was it something else?

“Thomas,” Jorge called, gesturing toward the kitchen with his hand. “Come with me. I want to talk to you about something.”

Thomas didn't hesitate. Newt seemed preoccupied talking with his parents, so he took that chance to slink away and follow Jorge into the next room. Whatever it was the man wanted to talk about, it had to be better than standing in the middle of a room feeling foolish.

The kitchen wasn't very big, not that Thomas was expecting it to be. The counters were cluttered with books and dirty dishes, making it seem even smaller. He couldn't see how Jorge found anything in such a mess. “You two talk at all?” Jorge asked, setting his coffee down on the small table in the corner. For some reason, it wasn't as cluttered as the counters.

“Me and Newt?” Thomas asked. “Kinda. I mean, we didn't talk much about what happened.”

"No?"

“No. I figured he didn't want to talk about it and, well, I wasn't going to force him.”

There was a knowing grin on Jorge's lips, much like last night, and it was starting to get on Thomas' nerves. He wasn't sure if he liked or hated this guy; Jorge seemed nice enough, but he had this attitude that made it seem like he always knew something others didn't, that he was always a step ahead. It made him frustrating, but also intriguing. “But I bet you're curious,” Jorge continued, leaning against the counter as though he were ready to tell a story. “The world is much stranger than you could have ever imagined, and you've got a lot on your mind. Don't you, _hermano_?”

Thomas couldn't deny it. There were a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to get out. It was true that he didn't want to pressure Newt for answers, having already been through so much, but the need for the truth was killing him. The problem was that he didn't know where to start. “Newt's a werewolf,” Thomas stated, running a hand through his hair. It still sounded ridiculous. “I can roll with that… I think. But what about the rest of his family? Are they all werewolves? And why did he turn into an actual wolf when that guy shot him?”

Every question seemed to pour out of his mouth nonstop, amusing Jorge. The man was far too laid back for his own good, or perhaps Thomas just wasn't the first person to come to him about the existence of the supernatural. “The bullet that hunter used wasn't silver, but it had been filled with a deadly toxin made from aconite, or 'monkshood' as some people call it,” Jorge explained.

“Wolfsbane,” Thomas mumbled to himself. He wasn't sure how he had known that; maybe he had heard it from where, a movie perhaps.

“Correct,” Jorge said with a grin. “There are different species of aconite. Aconitum napellus, for example. Garden monkshood and aconitum lycoctonum or, as most call it, wolfsbane. They're all poisonous, but this particular species must have weakened him and reverted him back to his true form.”

“But he looked like a boy,” Thomas objected. “He looked like any ordinary kid. How could that guy have known he was a werewolf?”

Suddenly, the grin faded from Jorge's face. He looked away, as if he were ashamed of something. It gave Thomas a sense of dread, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Unfortunately, that matters very little to some hunters,” he explained with a sigh. “If something was howling in the woods, they'll go after it no matter what it looks like. Even a human boy.”

“So that's why…” _He thought I was the werewolf._ There was too much information to swallow; it made him feel sick. It was no surprise to him that there were people who hunted werewolves. They were unnatural, neither human nor animal. Werewolves were supposed to be a work of fiction, stories people would share with one another around a campfire. With their incredible strength and razor sharp claws, they were supposed to be _monsters_. It only made sense that people would hunt them, and that was the worst part of it all, because underneath the brutality was a person that was capable of so much more than just the mindless killing.

Newt may be a werewolf, but he was still _human_.

Thomas didn't ask anymore questions, suddenly feeling lightheaded. The idea of somebody willing to kill a teenage boy without liable cause, just for them being inhuman (literally), was a new kind of madness that he just couldn't comprehend. Jorge, too, seemed finished with the conversation, turning his attention back to his coffee. All he wanted to do was go home and sleep for a month; maybe forget about the last twenty-four hours and pray that this had all been some kind of sick dream.

* * *

The last time Thomas sneaked into his own house, he was fifteen years old and had forgotten to tell his mother that he would be home late from a study group. That was two years ago, and he wasn't just a few hours late; he had been gone all night, and he was sure his mother was just waiting in the living room, ready to kill him the second he stepped foot inside. He jimmied the lock as quietly as he could and cringed as the door squeaked open.

Old floorboards creaked beneath his feet, like they were mocking him for his efforts. The house was eerily silent. There was nothing sizzling or boiling on the stove; he couldn't even hear the familiar sound of the bell from Jojo's collar. This could mean one of two things; either his mother was sleeping and believed him to be in his own room, or she knew something had happened to him last night and was currently out with a search party. Thomas could only hope it wasn't the latter.

Nonetheless, he took the silence and vacancy as an opportunity to sneak into his room undetected. As guilty as he felt for being out all night, maybe scaring his mother to death, his whole body felt heavy. Class started in about an hour, but he couldn't bring himself to care; all he felt like doing was sleeping.

Just as he turned into the hallway, Thomas nearly collided into a small, sluggish figure in a worn pink bathrobe. They let out a surprised yelp, eyes blown with in a brief moment of terror. It was his mother. “Thomas?” she asked quietly, as if this was the first time she had laid eyes on him in years. “My god, Thomas!” There's relief in her voice, and she's quick to pull him into a hug, which he happily returns. He isn't sure, but he thinks he can hear her crying.

“I was so scared,” she said, rubbing his back comfortingly. “You weren't answering your phone. I was afraid something had happened to you.”

“I'm sorry, mom.” Thomas realized that his grip on his mother had tightened. It finally started to dawn on him that, if things had gone differently last night, he would have never seen his mother again. He didn't want to let go; he didn't want to leave his mother's side ever again. The very thought of leaving her nearly brought him to tears.

Several minutes had passed, the two of them embracing in the hallway like they could be separated once more at any given time. When his mother finally pulled away, brow furrowed, he knew the inevitable lecture was about to come. “Where the hell were you?” she asked, trying to sound angrier than she looked. Her eyes were glistening with tears; the act wasn't working. “Why didn't you call? Why didn't you answer me?”

Thomas is silent for a moment, unsure how to answer. There was no way he could possibly tell her the truth; if he told her he was nearly killed out in the woods, she'd never let him leave the house again. He would end up worrying her even more, and he couldn't bear to put her through that kind of stress. “I, uh,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “I was just out with some friends.”

"With friends?"

“Yeah, yeah. We were just hanging out and I, um, I guess I just lost track of the time and I ended up falling asleep at their house. I didn't even hear my phone go off. Probably forgot to charge it.”

Actually, when Thomas reached into his back pocket he quickly realized that his phone was gone. Shit. It much have fallen out when he fell down that hill. He had been so caught up in the madness that he didn't even notice.

There was a variety of emotions on his mother's face; fear, disappointment, anger, but the most prominent was definitely suspicion. She had a special kind of intuition where she always seemed to know when people were lying, but that didn't necessarily mean she would always call them out on it. Most of them she would let them fall deeper into their web of lies until, eventually, they slipped up. It always worked, and Thomas knew that fairly well.

“Fine,” his mother said with a sigh. Thomas knew she didn't believe him; he could tell by the defeat in her tone. “But next time, when I call you, you answer me, and you tell me where you're going and who you're going with. Is that understood?”

"Yes, ma'am."

“Good… Now, go upstairs, take a shower and get dressed, or you'll be late for school.”

School. Thomas really didn't want to go, but he wanted to stay on his mother's bad side even less. A part of him felt bad for lying, but as he stepped into the bathroom, stripping off his muddy clothes, the ache in his muscles told him it was for the best. He examined his back in the mirror, it having taken the brunt of the impact, and while there were no serious injuries he did have several scratches and red marks leading down to his waist. _There's no way I can tell her_.

As he turned on the shower, the hot water proved far more relaxing than he thought it would. Once he stepped inside, he could already feel his muscles unwinding, and it felt good to clean off all of the dirt and dried blood. Mud had even gotten into his hair, making it feel grainy and just disgusting.

Thomas could spend the whole day in the shower if he was able, but unfortunately he had to cut it down to at least ten minutes; coming home super late (on a school night no less) was one thing, but his mother would be damned before she let him be late for school. He hastily climbed out of the shower and wrapped a towel around himself, making a dash for his room so he could just throw on some clothes and eat something real quick before he had to leave.

It was strange saying goodbye to his mother. Today was no ordinary day; he felt as if he had just come back from a war, and now he was once again leaving home. He strapped on his backpack and placed a kiss on his mother's cheek before heading out the door. Just as he was about to sprint his way to school, his attention was drawn to a boy standing across the street.

The boy was tall and looked about Thomas' age. His hair was cut short, and there was an angry scowl on his face that sent shivers down his spine. Thomas didn't recognize him, and he couldn't think of why he would be standing outside his house, glaring at him as if he had just committed the worst crime imaginable. A part of him wanted to call out to him, tell him to get lost, but the little voice in the back of his mind had returned and told him to ignore the boy. He needed a shred of normalcy in his life; it was never going to be the same again, and something told him that talking to that boy would only bring more questions he wasn't prepared to handle the answers to.

* * *

“So, let me see if I understand this,” Brenda said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Thomas honestly hadn't expected Newt to show up to school. After everything they had been through, he figured his mother wouldn't so much as let him leave the house. The blond approached him and Minho in the hallway before homeroom, asking them (more like telling them) to get with Brenda and find him at the bleachers behind the school during lunch. While he had a vague idea of what Newt wanted to talk about, he didn't think he'd want to tell Minho and Brenda, as well.

“You're a werewolf,” she continued. “You're from a family of werewolves. It wasn't you howling last night, but you have no idea who it was?”

“Sounds about right,” Newt acknowledged with a shrug. For somebody who tried his damnedest to keep his true nature a secret, Newt seemed calm. He looked exhausted; perhaps it merely didn't matter to him anymore. “Whoever it was, they drew the attention of that hunter. I was trying to track them down, but I found you two instead.”

Though he knew Newt wasn't trying to place blame on them, Thomas could practically feel himself deflate. The night would have gone much differently if he hadn't interfered.

“Are there other werewolves here, in the school?” Minho asked.

“None that I can name.”

“So you don't know.”

“I didn't say I didn't know. I said I can't name them.”

“You mean you won't name them.”

“I'm not going to put anyone else at risk.”

“ _Everyone_ is at risk,” Minho snapped, folding his arms in front of his chest. He looked as if he were ready to start a fight, his brow furrowed into a scowl. “Anyone caught in the wrong place at the wrong time is at risk. That hunter last night almost _killed_ Thomas because he thought he was a monster like you. If these people are willing to kill anyone to get to you, then it really doesn't fucking matter who's what.”

A heavy silence had fallen upon them; Thomas could actually feel the weight of it on his shoulders. If Newt had a rebuttal, he didn't seem interested in giving it. The emotion dropped from his features, as though he were trying to hide how Minho's comments hurt him. _Monster._ It was the same judgment Newt had made about himself last night. Hearing it out of the mouth of somebody else put a vile taste in Thomas' mouth. _Newt saved my life,_ he thought. _What's so monstrous about that?_

Brenda stood up from her spot on the bleachers, stepping in between Minho and Newt. She was much smaller than both of them, but if the two of them decided to pick a fight there was no doubt in Thomas' mind that she could take separate them with her bare hands, even with any supernatural strength Newt might have. “I think what Minho is trying to say,” she said, “is that we're involved now. Whether you like it or not, we're in this mess together, so you need to cooperate with us.”

“ _I_ need to cooperate with _you?_ ” Newt retorted, his face twisting into a grimace. “In this together, are we? That's cute. If I were you and if I was at risk 24/7, I wouldn't wanna put myself in even more danger by hangin' around a _monster_.”

Every word was like a punch to the stomach, emptying Thomas' insides. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't bring himself to stop Newt from storming off, seething in anger. It was obvious Minho had struck a nerve, and though she tried Brenda didn't seem to make it any better. If things kept up like this, there was no way in hell Newt would ever trust them. “Will you stop pissing him off?” Thomas asked, finding himself agitated.

“The guy's a total dick,” Minho countered. “A part of me wonders if we should've left his sorry ass in the woods.”

“For once, would it kill you to consider that he's still a person with actual feelings?” Thomas didn't know where this was coming from, but he didn't care. He wasn't going to deny that Newt's attitude was a problem, but when everyone seemed to be against him he could hardly blame him.

Abandoning his friends at the bleachers, Thomas chased after Newt, hoping to catch him before lunch ended. The conversation had taken a bad turn, and he needed to calm the blond down before things could get any worse between them. Minho had been right about one thing; whether Newt liked it or not, the three of them were now aware of supernatural creatures living in Maze. They were a part of this war going on. Thomas couldn't speak for Minho or Brenda, but he wasn't going to look the other way. He _couldn't_ look the other way, not when Newt was suffering.

The school was small, so it took no time at all for Thomas to hunt Newt down. He managed to catch him in the English hallway, making a dash toward him and grabbing his arm before he could get away. “Newt, wait,” he called. “Wait. Wait up. I'm sorry about that. Minho, he… He's just a little freaked out about everything. That's all.”

Newt didn't turn to face him. He was silent for several moments, but he didn't try to break away. Maybe he didn't want to show it—want to admit it—but Thomas could tell he had been hurt. He could tell by the way his hands trembled, and the way his shoulders were slumped making him look much smaller. It didn't matter what Minho thought of him, how people saw him as nothing other than heartless, because by the end of the day he was scared and lonely. He was just a kid.

“Do you know why we moved here?” Newt asked quietly, still refusing to to turn around. “Do you know why we would come to such an isolated town, move into a secluded house in the middle of nowhere?”

Thomas let go of his arm, letting it to fall to his side and remained silent. He didn't know if he should take a step back or a step forward; he didn't know if he really wanted to see the look on Newt's face, the despairing tone already enough to make his heart sink. All he could do was listen and try to understand.

“My parents were friends with these people. Had known them since high school,” Newt explained. “They were close, so I saw them a lot growing up. This one woman, Jean, would take care of my sister and I when our parents were busy. I trusted her without question… But I guess none of them knew who my mother really was, or _what_ she really was.”

There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Thomas' stomach. It told him he shouldn't be listening to this story, that the truth was too painful, but he needed to understand. He had resolved to stand by Newt, no matter the cost, and try to find a way to help him, even if it seemed helpless. Even if _he_ was helpless. After all, how was an ordinary human being supposed to take care of an extraordinary one? Thomas hadn't a clue, but he knew he could at least start by _trying_.

“I woke up to the smell of smoke one night,” Newt continued with a shaky breath. He was struggling to get the words out, tearing open a wound that probably hadn't quite healed yet, and it gave Thomas the small urge to hold and squeeze his hand. “I heard Lizzie screaming down the hall and I knew something was wrong. All I remember looking back is our home in flames, people my parents used to call friends and that I had trusted with my life cursing us and shooting at us. We were nothing more than monsters in their eyes. Freaks of nature who just didn't belong, who deserved to die.”

Newt finally turned toward him, eyes glistening with tears. Thomas was sure he had never seen anyone look so heartbroken. “My parent's are good people, Tommy. They've done nothing wrong. _Nothing_. Lizzie was only _four years old_. She and my father are perfectly normal, and yet they were going to kill all of us. I look at my little sister everyday and I hate myself, because nobody cares that she's just a child. Nobody cares that she's human. Because she's my sister, because she's my mother's daughter, she will _never_ be safe.”

The blond's body began to tremble; he was trying so hard not to break down, to fight the tears, and that's what hurt Thomas the most. The little voice in the back of his mind changed its tone, telling him to hold Newt, to comfort him, and so he did. Without a second thought, Thomas wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him into him. He could feel Newt's muscles growing tense, but he made no effort to move. He was completely still.

They stood like that for a minute or two, neither of them speaking a word. Eventually, Newt's body began to relax, as if melting into Thomas' touch. But he still didn't move. “What are you doing?” Newt asked, voice just barely above a whisper.

“Proving myself to you,” Thomas explained. There was a lump in his throat that he couldn't explain; his eyes burned, and his heart bled. The very thought of Newt hating himself for just being alive was too much to bear, and after such a brutal attempted murder why should Newt trust anyone? People had to earn his trust, but nobody seemed willing to try. Nobody except Thomas. “I understand how you feel,” he said, “and I don't expect you to trust me right away, and that's fine. I just want you to know that I'm here, and that I'm not going to let anything happen to you or Lizzie or anyone else. As long as I'm around, I'll be your safe place.”

Newt remained silent. Though he couldn't see his face, Thomas heard sniffling, so he assumed he had started crying. It made him tighten his grip on him. “You saved my life, Newt,” Thomas whispered. “I don't know about you, but that doesn't sound like something a monster would do.”

“I couldn't let you die,” Newt said softly. His arms wrapped around Thomas' waist, returning the hug. Thomas felt his heart flutter, and he couldn't wipe the smile from his face. Things were going to be different now; he could tell. “Thank you, Tommy.”

"You're welcome."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tad bit longer than my usual chapters, but I also feel like it's rushed; it probably could have been much longer, and then I'd have to separate it again. (Unfortunately, for what I was trying to accomplish with this chapter, I really didn't want to separate it.) I'm also probably going to stop making chapter summaries. As much as I like the appeal, I've been struggling trying to summarize each one.
> 
> I honestly have two or three AU's I'd like to work on, so updates may be further apart. I'd like to thank everyone reading this and for leaving comments. It's really encouraging me to continue, and I couldn't be more appreciative. Thank you all so much!
> 
> xoxo


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